


In The Faces Of Our Children

by soulshrapnel



Series: oh my god they were co-emperors [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Absurdity, Emperor Tarkin, Emperor Vader, Gen, Kidnapping, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Please Do Not Have A Family Dinner With Darth Vader, Skywalker Family Drama, Space Fascist Disaster Boys, also Tarkin family drama, enemies to fambly, in which Darth Vader is forced to go to therapy, long slow painful redemption arc, the angst gets pretty heavy here actually, weird villain polyamory stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 109,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25476694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulshrapnel/pseuds/soulshrapnel
Summary: It's been almost two months since the Battle of Yavin, and scarcely more thanonemonth since Darth Vader and Grand Moff Tarkin, having barely survived that battle, staged a successful coup against Emperor Palpatine. The Rebel Alliance has been taking advantage of the subsequent chaos where it can. But they know that the new Emperors' attention will return to them soon enough.Surprised by Emperor Vader on what should have been a routine training mission, and prompted by a strange impulse in the Force, Luke Skywalker surrenders to save his friends. Vader seems strangely uninterested in hurting him, but Luke doesn't know how long that will last, or just what to expect.He'sdefinitelynot expecting "I am your father."(Post-"A New Hope" AU. Newcomer friendly.)
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader, Natasi Daala/Wilhuff Tarkin, Wilhuff Tarkin/Darth Vader
Series: oh my god they were co-emperors [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845532
Comments: 310
Kudos: 290





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're new to this AU, here's what you need to know:  
> 
> 
> * Vader and Tarkin are boyfriends
> * Every movie up to "A New Hope" happened exactly as in canon, except that Tarkin got on his shuttle at the last minute and survived
> * Then they overthrew Palpatine because, seriously, fuck that guy
> * Now they're co-Emperors!
> * Vader spent most of the previous fic in this series cleaning up Palpatine's loose ends (such as, um, all those cultists on Exegol >.> ) and processing some of his Palpatine-induced trauma.
> 
> As a result of all this, Vader starts out this fic in a bit of a different place emotionally, compared to Canon Vader. If you want the deets of how he got where he is, you should read "Strike Me Down; I Am Unarmed." If you want _even more_ deets of how he got where he is, plus a lot of weird kinky sex scenes, you can start with "Playing With Fire," the series from which this AU sprang. But if you're just here for the AU Luke and Vader shenanigans, welcome! You can start right here. Everything not in those bullet points above will be explained as we go.

Vrogas Vas's single sun was white and hot, a dry crackling heat that reminded Luke of home. It beat down onto him, warming the skin of his arms and the back of his neck as he clung to the rock wall. He was beginning to break a sweat. Rebellion training days were long and hard, longer than most actual battles. His squadron had done several hours of aerial maneuvers before landing down here for the on-the-ground part of the day. Luke was better at flying than at ground maneuvers, but Rebel Command had insisted: even the best pilots needed to know how to handle themselves outside of a ship. Besides, there was something further into the wilds of this planet that he wanted to see.

"Keep going," Leia called out to the small team of them, making their precarious way down a series of thin ledges into a ravine. There was no life to speak of on Vrogas Vas, just brown rocks and canyons twisted into fairy-tale shapes. Leia was the team commander for this exercise, and she brought up the rear, immediately behind Luke, hustling the slowest of the team briskly along. "Don't slack. There are Imperials at the bottom of this canyon; every second counts."

There were no Imperials at the bottom of the canyon except in the team's mutually-agreed-upon imagination. They were pretending that some cache of weapons lay at their destination, or some new death machine that needed to be destroyed.

Luke had been surprised that they'd had time to go out for training at all. It had been a busy two months for the Rebel Alliance. They'd won the Battle of Yavin, but they'd needed to evacuate that system immediately afterwards. And no sooner had they gotten started on finding a new base than the Galactic Civil War had taken a whole new direction. A coup - though the Empire wasn't calling it that - had replaced Emperor Palpatine. Immediately afterwards, at least four new military factions had announced themselves, aimed not at restoring freedom to the galaxy, but at placing their own preferred leader in charge of the tyranny that remained.

The new pair of co-Emperors had held onto power, but the war of succession had distracted them, giving the Rebel Alliance some unexpected breathing space. And commanders like Mon Mothma knew how to use that space. In the month since the coup, they'd liberated two whole systems, bolstering those worlds' local independence movements to throw off Imperial rule while it was weakest.

But there was still a lot to do holding on to those two systems, and Luke had been surprised they had any time for training exercises.

 _Of course we need to train,_ Leia had told him. _You especially, Luke. You're good, but you're new. You've got a lot to learn._

Luke had reached the very narrowest part of the ledge. He moved cautiously, testing each foothold before applying any weight. It took effort to keep himself on the here and now, to focus on the senses that would keep him alive, and not his feelings about what lay deeper into this canyon.

During flyovers, the Rebels had identified something on this planet that looked like the ruins of a Jedi temple. And Leia had agreed that, if he did the rest of his training exercises diligently, Luke could have some time at the end to explore.

Luke's lightsaber - his father's lightsaber - seemed to weigh heavy as he climbed. Luke was supposed to be a Jedi. The Force was what had guided him to make that crucial shot at the Battle of Yavin. That, and what he could have sworn was a ghostly whisper in his ear from Ben Kenobi. But since then, Ben had been silent. He'd wanted to train Luke, but he'd died first, cut down by Darth Vader. Luke had good reflexes, but without Ben, he couldn't levitate rocks or leap tall buildings or whatever it was that Jedi Knights were supposed to do. He had been practicing with his lightsaber, but he didn't feel much better at it than any other foot soldier with a weird glowing sword.

Maybe it wasn't fair to feel cheated. The Rebels needed good pilots, Force or no Force, and Luke knew he was fighting on the side of good. But he couldn't help feeling that some grand destiny had dangled in front of him only to be yanked away again. He couldn't help wanting it back.

Maybe the old temple would have some answers.

Luke took a step further down the ledge, and another step, finding places in the rock to dig his fingers in for stability. After what felt like ages, he stepped down onto a wider ledge. This part was a foot and a half across, something he could walk on with only a little bit of difficulty. He still checked his hand and footholds carefully before releasing himself onto it. A hundred feet more and he'd be able to hop to the ground.

There was a sudden hum.

"Take cover," Leia hissed. The hum was the sound of a small ship's engine, and nobody but the Rebels was supposed to be flying around here.

Luke pressed himself against the canyon wall. Everyone else in the team did the same - Han and Chewie a few steps in front of him, Wedge Antilles further in front, Amilyn Holdo, and the rest of their motley young squadron.

"Didn't think we were expecting company, Your Worship," Han groused as he craned his neck toward the sound.

"We weren't," said Leia.

The three-pointed shape that passed overhead, a second later, was an Imperial _Lambda_ -class shuttle, dangerously low. It passed out of sight on the ravine's opposite side, and after a few seconds its engines died down. It had _landed_ \- not within sight, but not far away at all.

Luke had a bad feeling about this.

Leia had switched on the comm link at her wrist and begin muttering into it. "Organa to base. We've got visual on at least one Imperial shuttle out here. Don't know if it has friends nearby. Do you know what's going on? Over."

Han began to stir from where he was pressed against the rock. "If it's one shuttle, we've got guns and we outnumber them-"

"Ssh," Luke admonished. If the Imperials hadn't spotted them yet, they should work to keep it that way. Han rolled his eyes.

This might be something as simple as a couple of hapless officers who'd flown off course, or as dangerous as an ambush. But even in the best case, the Rebels needed not to be discovered. The Empire wasn't supposed to know that they had a training ground and a refueling station here. The Rebels didn't have many resources to spare for finding new ones.

Leia's comm link muttered something to her that Luke couldn't make out.

"All right," she said, "change of plans. At the bottom of this route there's a cave. Remaining undetected here is more important than shooting a few Imps. We're going to take shelter there until we have more intel. Move."

Han and Chewie got moving with the rest of the Rebels, but Han didn't look happy. "Running and hiding," he groused. "Sure glad I joined this brave rebellion of heroes."

"If they find we're here, we'll have to abandon the site," Luke explained to him in a whisper, hurrying after the two. Leia hurried down onto the wider ledge behind him.

"Not if we shoot them _before_ they can report back-"

And then there was a sound that made Luke's hair stand on end.

It was so soft that he thought he must have imagined it at first, but it kept going. Despite the burning sun, Luke suddenly felt cold. Goosebumps rose all up his arms, and he stopped and craned his neck. He did not want to have heard this correctly. If he'd heard right, they were all dead. But he could hear it.

It was the sound of a mechanical respirator, breathing slowly in and out.

Atop the opposite wall of the canyon, one black boot stepped into view, and then another. And another loud breath echoed out across the wasteland as the owner of the boots, caped and foreshortened, stared down at them.

Everybody saw him now. There was no mistaking that black figure, or the skull-like mask of its face, or the red lightsaber that shimmered to life in its hand. This wasn't just a couple of lost officers touching down by accident.

This was Emperor Vader.

*

Here is the sum of what Luke Skywalker knew about Darth Vader:

He was, as of just over a month ago, the evil Emperor of the galaxy. He had usurped the position from a man Luke had never met, who the Rebels assured him was just as bad. He shared it now with a man named Tarkin, who was _definitely_ just as bad.

He had killed Ben Kenobi before Luke's eyes. He had almost killed Luke during the dogfighting at the Yavin - and Luke had learned later how incredible it was that he'd survived. Darth Vader was known to tear through whole squadrons, in the air or on the ground, like so much tissue.

He had tortured Leia horribly on the Death Star. He had held her still with a merciless hand as Tarkin gave the order to destroy her whole planet. Leia had told that story to Luke only in pieces, in a voice that shook on the edge of breaking down and then clammed up again.

He had a particular interest in hunting down the Jedi and their descendants.

He had killed Luke's father before Luke was born.

Darth Vader was a monster.

That was what Luke knew.

*

Leia, as always, was the first to recover. She drew out her blaster and shot it at Vader. Several other Rebels, including Han, made the same gesture in the next instant. Luke reached for his lightsaber - but paused; he couldn't fight with a lighsaber from all the way down here. If he could lure Vader down in here without hurting the others, then maybe...

"He won't take us alive," Leia vowed.

Vader's saber rose at a lazy angle and harmlessly deflected all the bolts. He made a fist with his other hand, and every Rebel blaster instantly leapt out of its owner's hands, falling with a skitter to the canyon floor. Leia yelped and clutched her hand; she'd been gripping her weapon so tight that its escape caused a friction burn.

It was not possible to win a fight against Darth Vader, not in any of the normal ways. Everybody in the Rebellion knew that. They all usually shot at him anyway, when cornered - better to die on their feet than to be cut down fleeing, or captured to experience his nonexistent mercy. Luke had survived close brushes with Vader twice, by some fluke of luck or of the Force, but he was still feeling what everyone felt. The helpless, desperate terror. The feel of death a breath away from him.

Except...

Something here was wrong.

Luke couldn't have explained it, but he felt it in his gut, somewhere deep down under the cold and the fear. They weren't going to die. Whatever was going to happen here, it might be _bad,_ but it wouldn't be that. He didn't know how he knew. Maybe he was making things up.

"I am not here to kill Rebels today," Vader said, his deep voice easily carrying across the canyon. "Do not make me reconsider."

Luke stared. No, he wasn't making it up. But this was very out of character for Vader. What was going on?

If he could just _use the Force,_ the way Ben had said. If he could just quiet his mind enough-

Han was already digging in his belt for a second blaster. "Whatever you want from us, Vader, you're not getting it without a fight!"

Leia shot him a glare. She was the commander here, and speaking up defiantly on behalf of the group should have been her job. But she didn't yell over him. She'd appeared to shrink against the rock wall, turning away from Vader, but she was actually whispering very rapidly into her comm link. "Organa to base. I have a visual on Darth Vader. Repeat, visual on Darth Vader, he's here. I think he's alone. No, I don't want ground reinforcements. Listen to me _very carefully._ I'm sending my coordinates."

"What I want from you," said Vader in his booming voice, "is Luke Skywalker."

Luke froze completely.

There'd been a massive bounty on Luke's head ever since Yavin. He'd never seen it, and he'd been told that it didn't have his name attached - just a general order for _the pilot who blew up the Death Star._ That anonymity had protected him. Even Vader couldn't have known, in the heat of battle, just who Luke was. But technically the bounty was his, and if the Imps managed to link it to his name, he'd be one of the most wanted Rebels in the whole Empire. He could count on one hand the number of people with bigger bounties. Leia was one.

Han talked a lot about the Hutt crime lord who wanted him for his debts. Luke and Leia had a secret habit of rolling their eyes when the topic came up. The Hutts were scum. But every man in the Rebel Alliance was a wanted man.

Leia moved protectively in front of Luke, looking up from her comm link. "We're not giving you anyone, Imperial scum," she shouted back. "We'd all rather die first."

"Give me Luke Skywalker," said Vader, "and I will walk away." There was an impatience in his tone, as if he couldn't believe that the Rebels were so slow to understand. "None of you will come to harm. Neither will he, in my custody. I will forget I ever saw you practicing for your insurrection on this world. Refuse me, and I will cut through as many of you as necessary to get to him. You have thirty seconds to decide."

There was general, barely-muted panic. Nobody up on this ledge had much room to maneuver. Some of the Rebels scrabbled for backup weapons, or turned to flee, and were stymied by a bored-looking wave of Vader's hand. Luke barely heard most of it. He stared up at Vader, feeling sick.

The Rebels would die protecting Luke if they had to, just as he would for them. But Luke, deep in his gut, did not want them to. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru had already died because of him. Ben had sacrificed himself to hold Vader off so that Luke, Han, Leia and the droids could get away. So many pilots had died before his eyes at Yavin, even his friend Biggs, doing his part in the coordinated attack that had gotten Luke just where he needed to be. He did not want more of that. Not again.

And that feeling of wrongness was nagging at him, stronger now. Was it the Force? Was it his imagination? Vader couldn't be trusted to keep his word. But he hadn't come here to kill anyone. Luke _felt_ the truth of that. If he went with Vader, no one had to die.

He did not want to do it. But he wanted the other options less.

Han nudged at Luke's other side to get his attention. "That banthakriffer hasn't noticed he's at the top of a cliff. Think we can throw some rocks up there, get the wall to crumble under his feet? It's worth a shot-"

Leia had gone back to talking into her comm link. "I want a convoy of Y-Wings to strike these coordinates immediately. No, listen to me. Roll them out. Vader's alone; he has no air support. This may be our only chance-"

"No," said Luke, numbly.

"Twenty seconds," said Vader, implacable, above them.

Leia snapped up from her comm link. "What do you mean, _no?_ "

Luke gently lowered her forearm away from her face. He understood what she'd been doing - calling in the bombers. A suicide strike. Killing all of them, but maybe taking Vader with them. If they were lucky.

"I'm not letting you die for me," he said. "I have to do this. I - feel something. The Force. You have to trust me."

It was awful, and he was terrified, but there was something strange in him that wanted it. He hadn't felt the Force nudging him forward like this, the sense of a destiny just within his grasp, not since Yavin. The sense that if he let go of his fear and did this one thing, the terrible leap of faith that no one else understood, he could save them all.

Han scoffed. "C'mon, kid, don't throw yourself away over some mystical delusion."

"Vader's going to kill us all anyway," Leia agreed. "Don't be a fool-"

"Ten," said Vader above them.

"I'm sorry," said Luke.

He leaned in and kissed Leia's cheek - the way she'd kissed him for luck, on the Death Star.

"Luke!" she snapped, grabbing at him a second too late. "Luke, _no!_ "

He leapt off the ledge.

It was a move born of pure instinct. Luke couldn't actually jump to where Vader was. But he flew through the air, and something invisible caught him around the waist, holding him there.

" _Luke!_ " Leia shouted, somewhere behind him.

Vader had raised an outstretched hand in concentration. The Force pulled him further and further up, letting his friends drop away below.

There was more noise, but it seemed faraway. There had been a future Luke had thought he'd have with these friends, fighting the Empire, celebrating together the way they had after Yavin. He felt that future shutting behind him like a door.

He floated up above the canyon's lip, and Vader set him down with surprising gentleness. His masked gaze was focused very intently on Luke. It was not pleasant at all to be stared at like that, a tiny squeaking animal in a predator's gaze. Luke hoped like hell he'd interpreted his Force impulse correctly. He hoped it had really been a Force impulse at all. Maybe there was still time to choose differently. His lightsaber still hung at his waist. Maybe he could take it out and strike Vader down.

But he knew, deep down, how that would go. He'd made his choice.

Very slowly, shaking a little, Luke raised his hands behind his head in surrender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Here we go! I may be posting chapters irregularly, as with the last fic... Or I may keep telling you that I'm going to slow down and post chapters irregularly and then NOT actually slow down EVER, as with the last fic. We'll see.
> 
> I'm madeofsplinters on [Tumblr,](https://madeofsplinters.tumblr.com/) if you want to hang out there and throw villain gifs at each other, and I am a [blanket permissions author.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulshrapnel/profile)
> 
> Comments are love <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a very tense father-son shuttle ride, Luke awkwardly eats airline food with handcuffs on, and Vader says the line we were all waiting for him to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So about that "Mentions of suicide" tag - Vader's not going to be actively suicidal in this fic, but he was in the last one, to the point of making an attempt. And since this fic starts like a couple of hours after the end of the last one, people are going to continue to think/talk about what happened. You can assume that even if I don't warn for it chapter by chapter, any chapter with Vader or Tarkin's POV might contain small mentions. I'll warn for any longer / more detailed discussions.
> 
> Similarly, the fact that Palpatine was abusive is just... kind of a background thing that's going to be mentioned a lot everywhere. Along with all the other canon villainy and murder.
> 
> Other warnable things that will be mentioned in this particular chapter include slavery, and ( _very_ briefly) a sexual consent problem related to slavery.
> 
> (BUT IT'S A FUN CHAPTER, HONEST >_< )

Vader deactivated his lightsaber, then took out a pair of standard-issue binders and fastened them around Luke's wrists.

"You are not a prisoner," he said - his first words since levitating Luke to his side. "These are merely a precaution. To discourage rash impulses until you understand better."

"Looks a lot like being a prisoner to me," Luke muttered. He flinched as Vader reached for him, but Vader only unclipped the weapons from his belt, tossing the blaster aside. He paused at the lightsaber and took a close look, as if there was something strange about it.

"This is _mine,_ " Vader said, clipping it to his own belt beside the red one. He turned and, with a hand at the small of Luke's back, pushed him to walk in the direction of the shuttle. Away from the canyon. Away from his friends, maybe forever.

"It is _not_ yours," Luke snapped as he stumbled to keep up with Vader's long stride. "That lightsaber belonged to my father."

"Did it?" said Vader.

He sounded _amused._ Did he think this was funny? That only made Luke angrier. "My father was Anakin Skywalker. You betrayed him and murdered him!"

Vader came entirely to a halt.

What was he feeling behind that mask? Did he feel guilty? Was he angry that Luke had called him out for his crimes? He could go ahead and be angry.

"Obi-Wan told you that," he said at last.

"You bet he did," said Luke, who was on a roll now. "Anakin Skywalker was his friend. Ben told me how he trained you, and you turned to the Dark Side, and-"

"We will discuss this," Vader interrupted, pushing Luke along and beginning to walk again. "When we are in the air. I do not wish to tarry here."

The Imperial shuttle was parked not far away, its wings folded into a triangle on the barren ground. Vader led Luke up the boarding ramp, then set him down on one of the gravity couches in the shuttle's interior. There wasn't anyone else in the shuttle but the two of them. Luke looked around in confusion. Wasn't an Emperor supposed to have guards around him, officers, servants or something? Even on the Death Star, Vader had stormtroopers who'd followed him, and TIE pilots who flanked him in the air.

"I need to concentrate to get this shuttle into hyperspace," said Vader, setting himself down at the pilot's controls. "Make yourself comfortable."

Luke did not feel very comfortable, alone with his wrists bound, in the shuttle of his worst enemy. Now that he'd made the crucial choice, he didn't feel the Force anymore. He was on his own.

He fidgeted on the gravity couch as Vader operated the controls and brought the shuttle up into the atmosphere. Vader's gloved hands moved with practiced ease, but he flew roughly, pushing the shuttle's weak engines to their limit, as if something made him impatient. Luke found himself pressed into the couch, despite the inertial dampeners, as they rose. Leaving his friends that much further behind.

The reality of his situation was starting to sink in.

He was Vader's prisoner. Vader might have singled him out for better treatment than some - or at least _different_ treatment. But this was still not a good thing to be.

Luke tried to remember what he'd learned in Rebel training about being a prisoner.

He tried _not_ to remember what he'd learned on that topic from Leia.

A prisoner of war had three duties: survive, then escape, then sabotage. But Luke hadn't become a prisoner by accident. He needed to buy the Rebels enough time to get off Vrogas Vas - not just his squad, but the whole refueling base. That could take anywhere from a few hours to a few days, depending what went wrong.

Fine. He'd be Vader's prisoner for a few days. After that, he'd start looking for ways out.

They came out of the atmosphere into orbit, surfacing in a sea of stars, and Vader punched a few commands into the navicomputer. He then turned, while the computer did its calculations, and fixed his attention on Luke.

"Obi-Wan told you," said Vader without preamble, "that I killed your father."

"He did."

"Your father was Anakin Skywalker."

"He _was,_ " said Luke. He still knew so little about Anakin; even Ben had given him only a few sad, fond sentences. A few older people in the Rebellion claimed that they remembered Anakin - a fierce warrior, they'd said, a good leader, a hair-raisingly brave pilot. Luke reminded them of him - but those people were busy, and Luke had not yet managed to sit down with one of them and extract more than a few short words.

"Obi-Wan lied to you," Vader said shortly. "Anakin Skywalker was _my_ former name. _I_ am your father."

Luke stared at him, feeling the bottom drop out of the world.

"No," Luke said. "That's not true. That's impossible."

And yet it explained so much. It explained why Vader was treating him differently than any other prisoner. Why he'd wanted him even more than he wanted Leia. Why he'd been so uninterested in fighting, when he could have killed all the Rebels in that canyon so easily. Vader had been there reasons that had nothing to do with the war with the Rebels at all-

But it was too awful to be true.

"Search your feelings-" Vader started, and then he stopped, stymied. "You do not even know what that means. Obi-Wan had you for nineteen years. Why did he not train you?"

"He didn't have time," Luke snapped back, "before you killed him!"

"Your training should have begun when you were _four,_ " said Vader, pointing at Luke. He sounded offended on Luke's behalf. "It is blasphemy for a Jedi to bring up a Force-sensitive child and not train them. By nineteen, you should have been ready to face the Trials-"

He broke off, as if belatedly remembering why that wasn't a thing anymore. "You mean I would have been," Luke shot back, "if you hadn't killed all the Jedi?"

The navicomputer chimed that it was ready. With an angry growl, Vader turned back to it, punching in the last few commands.

Luke tried to slow down his breath and get a hold of himself.

Could it be true? Maybe Vader was lying. Luke didn't know _why_ he'd lie about this, what would be in it for him, but it wasn't like Darth Vader could be trusted.

Luke had longed for a father his whole life. But not like _this._ And if Vader was telling the truth, then-

Then that meant _Ben_ had lied.

_Why?_

Vader pushed the throttle forward. Luke watched despairingly as the sky turned to a streaking blur.

"There," said Vader, standing up from the controls as the blue-white swirls of hyperspace settled in around them. "Our course is locked in. We have a long ride ahead of us, my son."

He walked to the gravity couch opposite Luke. Luke scrunched his knees up close to his chest, considering the word _son._ No one had ever called him that before.

Luke was beginning to have an awful gut feeling that Vader hadn't lied. Maybe Vader _was_ his father. And that made Luke feel very small and very afraid. Being Vader's prisoner was bad in a way Luke understood. Being Vader's _son_ \- Luke couldn't even begin to imagine what Vader thought that would entail.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked.

"Mustafar. My home."

Luke had never heard of Mustafar. What kind of a home did Darth Vader have? He tried to picture Vader puttering around a normal house, like the farmstead he'd grown up on, but that mental image was so absurd that it vanished.

"You are the son of an Emperor," Vader continued. "An Imperial Prince. You will be treated as your rank deserves. Once you accept the truth, you will have every comfort and privilege you could imagine. I will make sure of it."

Luke looked down at the cuffs around his wrists, and at the plain, grayish interior of the Imperial shuttle.

He did not want to be an Imperial Prince. He wasn't even sure what comforts and privileges Vader was talking about. Fancy clothes? Good food? The Empire had stamped out democracy and oppressed the whole galaxy for years, and it was also doing its damnedest to kill Luke's friends. If Vader thought Luke could be enticed to that side with luxuries, then he didn't know Luke at all.

On Tatooine there had been a word for people who had things like fancy clothes and good food all the time, people who thought that kind of living was their rightful due, and that word was _Hutt._

"I'm not joining you," Luke said sullenly.

"You already have."

"I surrendered," said Luke. "That's not _joining you._ That makes me a prisoner. Not a prince. I hate the Empire!"

"As you wish," said Vader. He stood, and Luke flinched, but all he did was walk toward the back of the shuttle, to a pile of objects haphazardly thrown on a service shelf. He rummaged through it.

"I'm the pilot," said Luke, feeling weirdly desperate. It was incredibly stupid to say this; it might still be better than the alternative. Better to blurt it now than to have Vader find it out and feel betrayed, days or weeks later. "I'm the Rebel pilot who destroyed the Death Star."

"I am aware," said Vader. "That is how the Empire found you."

He emerged from the service shelf with a small package that looked like a ration box, with an Imperial crest stamped on the side. He returned to the couch opposite Luke and placed it down on the table between them.

Luke was more unnerved than he should have been. Growing up, Aunt Beru had told him stories of trickster spirits living out in the wastes. People weren't supposed to accept gifts from the spirits, especially not food or drink. Eat their food, and you might be trapped out there with them forever.

It was just a kid's story. Vader was clearly not one of those trickster spirits. But Luke did not want to eat Darth Vader's food.

"These are an admiral's shipboard rations," said Vader. "We have several hours' journey ahead. If you do not want them now, you may later."

Luke glared at them.

Vader waited a moment or two, but when Luke did not reach for the rations, he sat back.

"I know very little about you," Vader confessed. "Intelligence produced only a page of information, and they are not always reliable. You grew up on Tatooine?" He pronounced the planet's name with the peculiar, worn contempt that only a native of Tatooine would understand.

Luke briefly contemplated not telling him anything. _I'm a prisoner,_ he could say. _You get my name, rank, and serial number. That's all._

Instead he found himself looking at Vader thoughtfully.

"If you're my father," he said, "why weren't you around? You can't just have a baby and leave it in a pile of sand for nineteen years, and still call yourself its father."

"Until several hours ago, I believed you were dead. I was told-" Vader paused strangely, as if he had to gather himself. "I was told you and your mother had died before your birth. You are not the only one who was lied to, my son."

Luke scrunched his knees a little closer to his chest. He was starting to believe it, he realized with a strange pang. It felt like the truth. But then, why...

He wished Ben were here.

"But that will be rectified," Vader continued. "Obi-Wan stole you, but you belong to _me._ "

"I'm nineteen years old!" Luke snapped. "I belong to myself!"

To his surprise, Vader actually drew back.

Luke was too tense; he needed something to do with his hands. Almost without thinking about it, he turned to fidget with the box of rations. He thought guiltily about trickster spirits again, but he opened it. The box was so simple that the binders didn't really get in the way.

The items inside were a little better than Rebel shipboard rations, but not by much. A sealed, self-heating bowl of something that looked vaguely like casserole, some packaged side dishes, a bottle of water and a tea bag. All synthetic, though textured carefully enough that they almost could have fooled him. Food was food, though. Luke tugged at the "tear to open" packaging around the main dish, and found to his dismay that this was harder to do with binders on than opening the outer box. He couldn't quite get leverage to tear the plastic.

"Here," said Vader. He made a small motion with one hand, and the plastic tore itself open. With a small crack, the self-heating mechanism activated, and the bowl deposited itself neatly down in front of Luke as the contents began to steam and expand.

Luke looked at the bowl, feeling slightly humiliated. He picked up a plastic fork - this, at least, was possible under his own power - and poked it into a chunk of noodles, vegetable fiber, and protein gel. When the steaming started to die down, he brought the forkful cautiously to his mouth.

It tasted good, and he was hungry. Whatever else was going on here, Luke still had the metabolism of a healthy nineteen-year-old boy, and he'd been running and climbing and flying his X-Wing all day.

 _Trickster spirits,_ he thought guiltily as he swallowed it down.

He took another forkful.

Vader was still looking at him intently, as if Luke was a puzzle to figure out. "Did Obi-Wan raise you?"

"What?" Luke said with his mouth full. "No." He swallowed. "He was just some hermit who lived out in the Jundland Wastes. I didn't even know him that well. I was raised by my Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru."

Vader seemed, again, inexplicably offended. "He gave you to the _Lars_ homestead? _Why?_ "

Luke rose up defensively. "What's wrong with that? At least they were farmers who made an honest living, and not murderers like you!"

He _missed_ Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. While they lived, he'd itched to get out of their too-safe, too-quiet farm house and see the galaxy. But they'd raised him well and with love. They hadn't deserved any of what happened to them.

"Cliegg Lars," Vader said sharply, "was the sort of man who saw nothing wrong with making a slave woman fuck him in exchange for her freedom. And after that, he could not even protect her from the Tuskens. The Lars homestead did _not_ deserve you."

Luke opened his mouth, and then shut it again. That... was not the version of that story he'd been told.

He could not quite meet Vader's eyes.

"Right," he said after a pause. "Because... If you're Anakin Skywalker, then that makes you Grandma Shmi's son, right?"

"Shmi Skywalker was my mother," said Vader.

"They didn't tell me much. About either of you." Luke guiltily pulled the synthetic casserole closer to him and took another forkful. It was hard to imagine someone like Darth Vader having a son; it was even harder to imagine him having a _mother._ "They said you got freed when you were still a kid, and then... Uncle Owen said you were a navigator on a spice freighter."

"A _navigator,_ " Vader said with disdain; but some of the tension had broken. "Did they treat you well at the moisture farm? Did they put you to work?"

Luke swallowed. The tone of the question made him queasy. Enslaving humans was supposedly against the law but on Tatooine the Hutts did it openly, and so did plenty of others when they had the money for it, and the shitty Empire that Vader supposedly ran had never stepped in to stop them. "No, not like that. I mean, I pitched in with farm chores, but no more than the kids from other families. I went to school, and I had an allowance, and they told me when I'd done something wrong but they weren't all that strict. It wasn't like..."

He trailed off, an angry lump rising to his throat. He missed his aunt and uncle so badly.

Anakin Skywalker, born a slave, must know what it felt like to be trapped and oppressed and hopeless, out in some sand-covered backwater where no one cared about people like him. He must know that in much more awful detail than Luke did. But instead of using his power to make things better, he'd grown to be a murderous tyrant who oppressed _everybody._ How could that happen? How could a boy like that grow into a man like this?

Luke was beginning to realize, to his own horror, that he needed to know.

"You had a normal childhood," Vader summarized, some obscure dark amusement in his tone. "But if that was all Obi-Wan wanted, then why..."

Somehow that question pushed Luke's temper back over the edge He dropped his fork and pushed the bowl of synth-casserole angrily away. "I don't know why Ben did anything! But maybe we could _ask him_ if you hadn't _killed him_ and everyone else in my stupid family!"

He'd shoved harder than he meant to, and the bowl skittered all the way to the edge of the table. Vader caught it with the Force before it could fall. He was silent for a tense moment, his breath echoing in and out, the bowl of food floating awkwardly in the air in front of him.

"When did I kill your aunt and uncle?" he asked finally, perplexed.

Luke let his bound hands thunk down onto the table. "When you were looking for the Death Star plans. I was out with Ben and the droids and when I came back, your troopers had burned the whole house. It was stupid; they didn't know about any secret plans. They'd only bought the droids from a Jawa crawler for farm work. And if I hadn't gone looking for Artoo that morning, I would've been in there, too!"

Vader paused. "Recovering those plans was necessary for the safety of the Empire. The troops are trained to take any action deemed necessary in pursuit of such matters."

"Well, maybe they _shouldn't be!_ " Luke snapped.

He buried his face in his hands.

There was quiet for several breaths. It was slowly beginning to dawn on Luke that he'd been yelling at Darth Vader on and off for this entire conversation. In response, Vader had barely even raised his voice - and when he had, he'd been angry at Luke's great-uncle, not at Luke.

This was _weird._

"Many things in the galaxy are not as a child thinks they should be," Vader said at last. "On every side. An adult accepts this."

Luke gave an aggrieved groan.

Vader paused again, longer than before, and when he spoke again it was even more hesitant. As delicate, despite the deep tones of his voice, as desert glass. "Luke... Is your mother alive?"

"I don't know," Luke said venomously, still hunched over the table with his head in his hands. "She died when I was born. Unless that was a lie, too. You tell me."

"Ah," said Vader, in that same delicate tone.

He stood up, walked back to his pilot's chair, and sat there in silence for several minutes, looking out into hyperspace.

*

Vader seethed internally, so hot it burned, but his anger was not directed at Luke.

Here are a small sampling of the things Obi-Wan had stolen from him:

Padmé's body. Padmé's hand gripping his in the midst of childbirth. Luke's first breath and his first baby wail. Even the knowledge of what had happened, of how exactly Padmé had died. _If_ she'd died.

First steps. First words. Bedtime stories. Skinned knees. The first time Luke's little hands ever reached eagerly into some engine, demanding to know how the parts fit together.

The training in the Force that Luke should have had. The training that was his _birthright._

The chance for Vader's son to ever look at him with love. For the two of them to speak without knowing they'd already almost killed each other.

Obi-Wan had stolen all of this and so much more, and Palpatine had _knowingly_ let it happen. Palpatine had made Vader believe _he'd_ killed both Padmé and Luke.

And Vader could not hurt them for it, could not even scream his displeasure, because they were both inconveniently already dead.

*

Truth be told, Vader did not have a plan. He'd been very busy this past month with the aftermath of the coup against Palpatine. Vader had been injured fighting his master, and he'd spent most of the time since then in a bacta tank, while Tarkin, his lover and co-Emperor, took care of most matters of state.

He'd thought that without Palpatine he'd be happier. Instead all Vader's inner demons had begun rearing their heads in new ways. It was like he'd been under a spell these past nineteen years - loathing his master and himself, but not really _questioning,_ because what was the point? Everything that mattered was already gone. But now that Vader was Emperor, it all felt different. And meanwhile, even in death, more and more of his master's lies had come to light. Vader was not coping well.

This morning he had set out on a mission - along with Tarkin's other lover, Grand Admiral Daala - to a planet called Exegol, where Palpatine had left behind a particularly foul and secret set of Dark Side projects. The mission had been a success, but a difficult one, and it had taken its toll. Vader had attempted to die, at the end of that mission, rather than return.

In response, Daala had offered him a flimsi with some information about a potential next mission.

A flimsi, prepared by Imperial Intelligence, bearing Luke's name.

Vader had stared at it, rage cracking the room around him, while he took in each detail: the age, the origins on Tatooine, the association with Obi-Wan. Even the face, so much like the face Vader's old self once bore, and so much like Padmé's. Vader had rushed to his shuttle without bothering to explain, and he had set a course immediately for Luke's last suspected location.

Vader was an Emperor now, after all. If he wanted to go get his son, no one could stop him. He was almost glad that he hadn't found out until now. He didn't want to think about what Palpatine would have done, if Luke had surfaced while the old wretch was still alive.

And now he had Luke. Luke was _here,_ alive and healthy. All grown up, but still wide-eyed with youth. Impatient and volatile, the way Vader had been back in better days. Idealistic and curious, the way his mother had been. So full of power, even if for some baffling reason Obi-Wan hadn't trained him. So bright in the Force, like a star. So alive.

And he clearly hated being here.

Vader turned and watched as Luke morosely ate more of his rations. He had known, when he set out for Vrogas Vas, that Luke was a Rebel. He'd known that might cause difficulties. But he'd told himself it was merely a political difference. Plenty of families had those. Even Padmé, back in better days, had disagreed with Vader as to how a galaxy should be run; but it hadn't caused much difficulty.

It was belatedly becoming clear to Vader that this was not a mere political difference. He'd hurt and killed people Luke cared about - more of them than he'd thought. This was not something that could be waved away, the way Padmé had waved their disagreements away, with an indulgent smile and a _You're making fun of me._

It was Obi-Wan's fault for setting Luke up to join that side of the war. For hiding Luke from him in the first place. Vader wanted to find Obi-Wan and hurt him, impossible though that was. He wanted to hurt Luke, to shake him until he crumpled and joined Vader's side by force, where he should have been all along.

But Vader knew, deep down, that more hurt would not solve this.

On Exegol, after his attempt at dying failed, Vader had come to a certain realization. He had realized what it meant that he was free. He could not undo the harm Palpatine had done to him, or the harm he'd done to others, no matter how frantically he worked to stamp out Palpatine's remains. He could not change the past. But if he accepted the past, then he could act in the present however he liked.

He could choose to love his son, and not to harm him again.

That was what he was choosing now, practicing, putting effort into it. Even if his rage at the past made him clench his metal hands so hard that they tore at the armrests of his pilot's chair. He could still make the choice. He was free.

*

As the flight wore on, Vader's anger gradually drained away to mere restlessness. Usually, during the boring parts of space flight, he could zone out and meditate. But that was not an option with Luke around. Luke was so _present,_ his mind so distractingly bright. And Vader could not help but want to know about him.

"What shall I provide for you at our destination?" Vader asked as Luke picked at his food. He was hazy on the topic of food - he hadn't been able to eat in the normal way for many years - but he knew that shipboard rations, even in the highest class, were not considered impressive. "Do you have a favorite food? A drink of choice?"

"It doesn't matter," Luke said, staring down into his half-eaten synth-casserole. "I'm a prisoner, remember?"

All the other related questions - clothes, toys, vids, music, games - got the same response.

Vader knew a little bit about Luke's interests - only what had been on that one-page flimsi. He knew Luke liked droids and flying; Vader liked those things, too. There was a mechanical workshop at his fortress - a hobby he'd continued to indulge in, despite Palpatine's disdain. There were customized vehicles, too, hot rods that could be flown through the lava fields for fun, but Vader knew better than to offer those to Luke yet. Luke still believed he was a prisoner. Given a vehicle, he would try to escape.

Through awkward, repeated, scattershot questioning, Vader did manage to tease out most of the story of how Luke had gotten here. How R2-D2, Vader's old favorite astromech, had carried the Death Star's plans for the Rebels; that made Vader feel very strange. How Obi-Wan had belatedly and heavy-handedly convinced Luke to be a Jedi. How the two of them had bought passage to Alderaan on a freighter; they had been very surprised to arrive and find the planet missing. From there, Vader already knew most of the story.

He wanted to know how the Rebels treated Luke, and if he had many friends. But Luke clammed up again at that. "They're Rebels, father," he'd said in exasperation. "I'm not going to just hand you the names of all the Rebels."

But he clearly had strong feelings for many of them. He seemed fond of the Princess in particular.

"Do you have a lover among the Rebels?" Vader asked.

Luke jerked back as if the question itself was appalling. His face turned red. "What?! No. Why would you even _ask-_ "

Clearly Vader had phrased the question impolitely. He could not quite remember what the polite version was. It had been a long time since Vader was around people he needed to talk to politely.

"You are my son," he answered. "It is important to know."

"Right, because we're all one big family now." Luke looked down despairingly into his rations. He'd eaten very slowly, and only when he was too embarrassed to focus on Vader. It had been an hour since Vader set them out, but there was still half a packaged dessert left, and some tea that had probably gone cold.

After a moment Luke rallied and looked back up at his father. Under the anger and fear and humiliation, Vader had noticed another feeling stirring in Luke's mind. A kind of cautious, pitying curiosity. "If you get to ask questions because you're my father..." he started, and then trailed off.

"Yes?"

"Do I get to ask questions because I'm your son? Fair's fair."

That seemed very fair. "Ask me anything, my son."

Luke's face went a little bit red again. "So, um- There's rumors I heard, about you and Emperor Tarkin-"

"We are in a relationship, yes."

Luke slumped a little bit. He looked both relieved that Vader hadn't said it in some other way, and disgusted with the idea. "And you've got all kinds of other friends, I bet. All the Imperials must love you."

"They do not," said Vader. Stormtroopers and common people loved Vader's image. High officers and other influential families tended not to. His habit of strangling them might have had something to do with that. Besides Tarkin, Vader didn't have many other real friends.

Luke gave him a strange, ironic, sidelong look. "Can't imagine _why_ not."

Vader went quiet for a minute and focused very hard on not harming his son.

After a minute, Luke shifted. "Why did you overthrow the old Emperor?"

"I did not like him."

It was more than mere dislike, of course. Palpatine had abused and manipulated Vader horribly for longer than Luke had been alive. But Vader didn't like to talk about that. He barely talked about it even with Tarkin, though Tarkin had managed to figure out the gist.

Luke frowned skeptically. "You could have done it any time, couldn't you? What made you do it a month ago?"

"That is not a story for now," said Vader, discomfited.

"You said I could ask you anything," said Luke, his voice rising slightly to a whine.

Vader didn't think he could explain the coup in words Luke could understand. He had _wanted_ to overthrow Palpatine ever since the Empire rose, but until recently he'd thought it was impossible.

It was Tarkin who'd changed Vader's mind. Not intentionally, and not immediately. But Tarkin had grown to care for Vader. Tarkin had a healthy awareness that Palpatine, despite his power, was a fallible human. Tarkin had not liked the way Palpatine treated Vader. And Palpatine had been increasingly jealous of their attachment to each other. Also, Tarkin knew how to run a galaxy. How to set policy, make alliances, and do politics. Vader did not.

Eventually, all those things together had simply reached a tipping point. And Vader had realized that things did not have to go on as they had been.

So he had held out his gloved hand and invited his lover to rule the galaxy with him.

And Tarkin had said _yes._

"It took until a month ago," he said, "to secure the proper assistance."

Luke frowned more deeply, "You mean Emperor Tarkin."

"Yes," Vader said.

Vader was not a fool. He remembered Alderaan. He knew why the Rebels, including Luke, disliked Tarkin. But Tarkin had loved Vader at Vader's very worst, when Vader barely even cared about himself. And Vader needed him.

Luke gave him a considering look. "Why do you wear that armor?"

"There was an accident involving lava. Shortly before you were born."

"An accident?" Luke repeated, a crease appearing in his forehead.

Vader liked to call his injuries an accident. It wasn't technically a lie. He hadn't fallen into the lava on purpose; he had meant to win that fight.

Luke sighed, and he rested his head on the table. Vader could see his thoughts so brightly in his mind. Luke was showing the signs of an adrenaline crash, and he was full of tired misery: worry for his friends, distress at being taken from them, fear for what would happen to him now. Bewilderment at what he'd learned on this shuttle so far. How could Vader be his father? How could Obi-Wan have lied to him? _Why?_

Vader wished he had any intelligible answers.

"Why did you turn to the Dark Side?" Luke asked at last.

Vader froze.

He remembered why he'd turned. But it was not a story he knew how to safely tell. He had never even told it to Tarkin. How could he find the words?

"Fine," said Luke after a short pause, burying his head in his bound hands again. "Don't tell me. Not like I needed any of this to make sense."

"I will tell you," Vader promised impulsively. "Later. When you are ready."

Luke didn't move from his despairing slump against the table.

This was going to be a very long shuttle ride.

*

By the time they touched down on Mustafar, Vader was exhausted. This had been a long day. On Exegol, in addition to the suicide attempt, he had fought off a tremendously strong Force effect and then used the excess power to redirect an Imperial squadron. The dizziness and weakness that were inevitable after such efforts had begun to catch up to him. His head hurt more than it usually did, and his joints creaked with every movement. Luke had spent the past hour slumped over the table, bored and despairing, playing with his discarded food containers and growing less and less willing to answer anything Vader asked. He had realized too late that he should have brought a vid, or a game, or something else to occupy his son's restless mind. He didn't know what he was going to do with Luke.

As the shuttle descended, the lava fields of Mustafar came into full view. Vader felt a keen discomfort in Luke's mind as his son looked out the window at the hellish landscape.

Vader had grown accustomed to this place. There was a dark satisfaction in planting his fortress down next to the thing that had hurt him, refusing to let it alone. There were spiritual meanings to a choice like that: the Sith religion was all about pain and rage, nursing them and using them for their power. Below the lava in this particular spot, there happened to be a Dark Side node of considerable power.

Most visitors Vader allowed here were not Force-sensitive, but they looked at the lava with a kind of fear that Vader savored. Luke's mind was different. Somehow, the lava made Luke _sad._ He'd wanted a father who was a hero and a Jedi, and instead he had this cruel idiot who surrounded himself with flame. For the foreseeable future, this was Luke's life now. Lava, smoke, and gloom.

Seeing his own home through his son's eyes, Vader felt ashamed.

No matter. Vader would deal with him further in the morning. There were comfortable rooms in the upper floors of the fortress, and food much more delicious than what came out of a ration box. There was that workshop full of droids and engine parts, and Tarkin had probably left a stack of reasonably acceptable vids and games somewhere. If none of that mollified Luke, they could try the Imperial Palace itself. He would adjust. Probably.

Luke squinted into the sudden heat as the loading ramp extended. "This way," said Vader, beckoning him forwards.

Luke sullenly walked along, following Vader along the catwalk to the front portcullis, which opened for them in a dramatic gout of steam. Vader could feel the wheels turning in Luke's head, as they had several times since his capture: was there some way to catch Vader off guard, attack him, push him into the lava and claim a victory for the Rebellion? But his heart wasn't in it. It hadn't been since _I am your father._ Vader knew what people's minds felt like when they were psyching themselves up to attack him. Luke, in this state, posed no real threat.

When the portcullis clanged shut behind him, Vader made a small motion in the Force and unlocked Luke's binders. They sprang from Luke's wrists and Luke let them fall to the floor, rubbing his forearms as the circulation returned.

"You will no longer need those," Vader explained. "But I will keep the lightsaber. It is mine, after all."

Luke looked around glumly at the anteroom, which did not have any lava in it, but was still grand and dark, picked out in dull reds and grays and deep blacks. There were a few black couches on which to sit, but little other decoration. Vader had liked this room before. Now he wasn't sure.

"Why do you live here?" Luke asked.

"Because it is my home. This way." Vader led Luke to the turbolift. The lift doors closed around both of them, and Vader leaned carefully against one wall so as not to crowd his son in the small space. Luke pressed as close to the opposite wall as possible, which still left them only inches from each other.

"No, I mean-" Luke looked thoughtfully in the vague direction of Vader's shoulder armor. "Why did you decide to live here?"

"I have a history with lava," said Vader dryly. "And this place rests overtop of a powerful Dark Side node. It is useful for my needs."

Luke hugged himself. "You're not going to turn me to the Dark Side."

"I would not want to," said Vader. If he turned Luke, that would make Luke his apprentice, which was out of the question.

The lift opened on the sixth floor, and Vader led Luke out into a short corridor, with two doors on each side. The sixth floor was where Vader kept his guest rooms. Usually all of these were empty; he had wondered, when he built the fortress, if four was overkill. But right now, all but one of the rooms was taken.

The first door on the left had unofficially become Tarkin's room. Tarkin wasn't here right now, but he had taken to storing some outfits and personal items in that room between visits, including some items with a sexual purpose. Vader wasn't going to put Luke in there.

The second room was currently occupied by Captain Piett, an officer from the _Executor_ who gave Vader his morning briefings. The third was for Neap, an ex-Inquisitor who'd joined Vader temporarily for the Exegol mission, and who probably hadn't left yet.

That left the furthest door on the right.

Vader opened it and motioned Luke in. A light came on as Luke crossed the threshold. It was large by the standards of guest rooms, black and grand, with a black-sheeted double bed, a dresser, a desk, and other such things. A door at the side led to an equally dark and sumptuous fresher, and a large window looked out over the burning crags.

"This is your room," said Vader. "You may roam as you wish between here and the seventh and eighth floors. Do not venture elsewhere without an escort. There is an intercom on the desk with which you may summon a servant if you require anything."

Luke frowned at the room. He was not thinking about the fortress's amenities, but about the Force still. "Wait, why don't you want to turn me to the Dark Side? I thought that was what you were all about. Darkness and evil and-"

"I will not train you," said Vader. "You are _woefully_ untrained. But I have sworn that I will never take an apprentice."

Luke looked up at him, honest and innocent and puzzled. "Why?"

Vader's head was pounding. He wanted to go to his quarters and sleep. He would send Tarkin a message first, noting for the record that he had returned in one piece; but then he needed a nice long stay in his bacta tank. He needed to figure out what he was going to _do_ with this boy, now that he had him.

"Pray that you never find out," said Vader, and he shut the bedroom door in Luke's face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Princess Leia was already having an awful day, and now someone wants to talk to her about her biological parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: Some brief (like a couple sentences each) descriptions of torture here, because Leia has Vader-induced _issues._
> 
> This is a bit of a bleaker chapter, but I feel like Leia often gets left out of the Vader and Luke stuff, so it was fun to explore her own views about what's going on.

The _Home One_ had arrived in orbit around Vrogas Vas shortly after Darth Vader left, so as to assist with the evacuation of the refueling base, and Leia Organa stumbled aboard in a froth of grief and rage. The rest of her team was no better - most of them shaking or hugging themselves or staring into the distance. Leia wasn't going to spend this time shaking or hugging herself. She had bigger fish to fry.

General Hera Syndulla, the Twi'lek commander who'd supervised today's exercises, stood on the bridge with her hands on her hips. She did not look pleased.

"Are you all here?" she asked, in a tone several notches sharper than her usual. To a casual eye she looked stern, but Leia knew she was desperately worried for them, the sternness only covering it up. As a politician, Leia had long ago mastered the skill of detecting hidden emotions. "Did everybody but Luke make it out?"

"We did," Leia confirmed, as the other survivors streamed past her towards the mess hall or the machine room or their bunks.

Hera was not mollified. "You want to explain to me why you tried to call down a convoy of bombers against your own team?"

Leia walked straight up to the commander and slapped her across the face.

"You could have sent them," she said, in a voice low and tight with rage. "You could have struck against the location I asked you to, and Emperor Vader would be dead now. Every life he takes from now on, every bout of torture, every death of Rebels and civilians alike, that's on you."

Hera didn't budge. "I know you're upset, Leia. But unless you want a write-up for insubordination and assault on a superior officer, you're going to take that back. We do _not_ fire on our own troops here."

The Rebel Alliance followed rules that the Empire didn't - no torture; no killing civilians; no executing prisoners without a fair trial - because that was what made them better than their enemies. That, and democracy. But there were more minor rules than those ones, rules that got fiddly and technical, and sometimes Leia could not fully bring herself to care. "Every one of us agreed to give our lives for this cause."

Han walked up next to her, dropping his pack down. Han wasn't shaking or hugging himself. That was one good thing about Han; he bounced back. He also saw fit to butt into conversations like this when he pleased. "Speaking of which, when's the rescue mission? 'Cause I'm in."

Chewbacca, at Han's side, growled something that was probably agreement. R2-D2, Luke's favorite astromech droid, had also rolled in from somewhere. The droid gave a mournful warble.

Leia turned to the three of them. "You don't understand. I want Luke back, too. But this isn't like planning some prison break. Luke was taken _directly_ by Emperor Vader. We don't know where Vader's taking him or why, and we're in the middle of an evacuation. We don't have the manpower to help him, not now."

And by the time they did, it would probably be too late.

Luke was dead already if he was lucky. She remembered all too well what else might be in store.

Leia was already hardened against loss, and she'd known Luke only for a short time. But in these past two months they'd grown strangely close. She'd had a feeling about him from the moment they met. Like she'd known him all her life.

It would be obscene to say that Luke felt like family. Leia's family was _gone,_ all of them, forever. It was just that somehow, in the wake of that loss, Luke had felt like the next best thing. He'd been something she instinctively knew wouldn't hurt her. She'd lost so much, but with Luke, in short snatches and with great difficulty, she almost felt like she could talk about it.

And now he was gone, too.

Nothing would ever be okay.

"Well, aren't you glad that's not what we said on the Death Star?" said Han.

Leia took an enraged step toward him, opening her mouth, but Hera held up a hand and cut her off. "Hey. Before we decide we're rescuing _or_ not rescuing anybody. Mon Mothma wants to talk to you, Leia. Alone."

"Why?" asked Leia, surprised.

"I don't know, but she gave that order as soon as I told her what happened to Luke." Hera crossed her green arms. "I think it's about him."

*

Here was some of what Leia Organa knew about Darth Vader:

He was a monster. Everybody who willingly served the Empire was a monster, but most hid it behind an air of respectability or efficiency. Vader seemed to revel in his monstrousness, in being the bogeyman the Empire's enemies fled from in their nightmares.

He was supposed to have been fanatically loyal to Palpatine, and uninterested in politics except as an excuse for his mass murders. The coup had taken the Rebellion's political analysts by surprise. No one was sure of Vader's current motives. The prevailing theory was that Emperor Tarkin had orchestrated the whole thing, and Vader had gone along with it for some obscure reason of the heart.

He could make a person feel that their own heart was being torn out, that their skin was on fire, for hours, without even having to touch them.

A minority of analysts believed that Vader had political aims different from Palpatine's, aims that would not be fully visible in policy until later. In his coronation speech, he had publicly criticized Palpatine's leadership. And his first official act had been to disband the Inquisitorius - a program Palpatine had designed. Maybe, just maybe, the new Emperor was questioning the uses to which he'd been put.

Leia didn't buy it. Maybe Vader had gotten tired of Palpatine. But he'd stated in that same speech that he wanted to keep on doing the things he'd done before - leading the Imperial military and so on. Everyone knew he was leaving the bulk of the policy work to Emperor Tarkin, and everyone knew what Emperor Tarkin was like.

Vader liked to hurt people, that was all. He was the kind of man who thought he could get away with anything. But even Vader could not destroy everything that opposed him. He could not destroy hope, or the desire to be free. And the more he pushed, inevitably, the more the galaxy would rise to push back.

Darth Vader had a reckoning coming.

That was what Leia knew.

*

Leia sat sullenly in the chair across from Mon Mothma's desk. By this time, she had composed herself. She sat straight and looked at the older woman directly, eyes dry. Leia had known Mon Mothma all her life. She didn't know what Mothma might know about Luke, or how it could possibly be relevant at a time like this. But she trusted that Mothma did things for a reason.

The room's walls, and the surface of the desk, were both a bright white. Mothma favored that color, and was wearing her usual white gown. She had discreetly ensured there was a box of tissues sitting within arm's reach of where Leia sat now. Leia silently resolved not to need it.

"First of all," said Mothma, "I want to say I'm sorry you went through what you did today. I'm glad that, aside from Luke, none of the rest of your team were harmed. That could have gone much worse."

"With respect, Commander, I'm not interested in discussing what could have happened."

Mothma smiled sadly and shook her head. "Of course. The reason why I called you here is to share information. About Luke."

Leia looked at her carefully. Mothma always did things for a reason. "You know something about where Vader's taken him."

"Not _where_ , necessarily. But I believe I know _why_ , and it's not for the reason you think. It's also very likely, based on this information, that Vader is not going to _harm_ Luke - or at least, not immediately. There is something about Luke and his father - two things, really - that only the founders of the Rebel Alliance knew. We kept it secret for Luke's protection, and the protection of others. Apart from Master Yoda, wherever he is, I suppose I'm the only one left of that group." She gave Leia a gently sad, haunted look. "But, in light of the current situation, I believe you need to know. I trust that the information will not be passed on, without authorization, beyond this room."

Mothma was very composed, but Leia could see the grief behind her features. Mothma had been a close friend of both Leia's parents. She wasn't from Alderaan - her home planet, Chandrila, was still very much in one piece. She didn't truly feel what Leia was feeling. But in her own quiet way, Mothma was in mourning, too.

Leia nodded. "Tell me."

"You're aware who Luke's father was," said Mothma, and there was more of a question in it than there should have been.

"Anakin Skywalker," Leia answered. "The Jedi Knight." Luke had been very proud of his father, even though they'd never met. Darth Vader had killed him before Luke was born.

"Yes. Which is a bit strange, since the Jedi were meant to be celibate, but never mind. I knew Luke's mother better than his father, as it happens. A senator named Padmé Amidala."

"I've heard of her," Leia said, pleasantly surprised. Amidala had been one of the Rebellion's founders. She was someone Leia's father, in particular, had spoken of warmly.

Mothma gave a weak smile. "Unfortunately Luke was born on the day of the Jedi Purge. Anakin wasn't present at the birth, and Padmé didn't survive it. She had fled Coruscant and had only a few people with her, including Bail Organa and Obi-Wan Kenobi. So this is the first of the two secrets. Even Anakin didn't know this, but there wasn't only one child. There were two. Twins."

"I don't understand," said Leia, although the words had been clear enough. Did Luke have a brother, somewhere in the galaxy, unknown to him? How was that relevant? Mothma's demeanor screamed that there was more. That she somehow expected this to be shocking and difficult for Leia in particular.

"The Force doesn't always run in families, but it was more likely than not that both twins would have some measure of the kind of power their father had. Since the Empire had turned against the Jedi, they would both have to be hidden for their own protection. So they were separated. One went with Obi-Wan to Tatooine and kept his father's last name. In the worst case, if anything unpleasant did come looking for Anakin's child, it would find the obvious one, and assume that this was all there was to find." Mothma's eyes were wide and pained, but they didn't waver from Leia's. "Bail Organa took the other."

Leia felt the breath go out of her like a punctured balloon.

She'd known from an early age that she was adopted. But her parents hadn't told her where she'd come from. _It's not safe,_ they'd explained. _Someday, we hope, we can tell you._

Leia did remember her birth mother, though. Just a blurry image lodged in a baby's brain. Beauty and kindness, love and grief. _Such_ grief - it had threatened to swallow the room.

A blurry image that was not dissimilar to Padmé Amidala, if you tilted your head and squinted.

"You're telling me that-" she stammered. "That Luke is my brother."

"Yes."

Leia put a hand to her head. "I knew," she said, reeling. "When we met. I felt like I knew him. How did I _know?_ "

"I don't know," Mothma said calmly. "Perhaps it was a good guess. Perhaps the Force told you."

"But I'm not a Jedi," Leia said, shaking her head, as if she could dislodge everything about this that felt wrong. "They tested my M-count when I was little. It came back normal, barely even off average-"

"Those tests can be falsified, if one has the money, and is willing to take the risk. Leia, haven't you ever been aware of other people, or of what was about to happen, before others were? Haven't you had gut feelings, things you couldn't explain, that steered you in the right direction when nothing else could?"

"I'm a politician," Leia argued. "Of _course_ I'm more aware of other people."

But she _had_ always had a knack for it. She remembered being very little, watching raptly and covertly from the edge of the room as her parents dealt with their work friends - or, just as often, their enemies. She remembered peppering her father with questions afterwards: _Why does Governor Rheet want money so badly? How come he was thinking about money the whole time but kept saying he wanted other stuff that he didn't really want? Why did you and Mama have to smile when you were actually mad at him? Why not just say you were mad?_

Bail had given her a look that seemed friendly and quizzical, but there was worry deep down underneath, a very big worry. _What makes you say he only wanted money?_

Leia had tutted impatiently. _Obviously he was! I just had to look at his face._

_You're a very clever little girl,_ Bail had told her. Leia's little hand made a fist; she did not like to be spoken to condescendingly, even by her father. But she knew he was saying it this way for a reason. He did take her seriously, and that was why he was worried. _I'm proud of you. Not many people could see those things in Governor Rheet's face so easily. But, Leia, this is something it isn't safe to talk about. There's a reason why we can't always say what we see. The Empire doesn't want people like us to be clever like that. If they knew, they would see you as a threat. Do you understand?_

Leia thought that being seen as a threat by the Empire would be a good thing, but her father was scared to death for her, and she didn't want him to be scared like that. So she'd nodded solemnly. _I understand._

She wasn't a Jedi; she was just clever, and she picked up on things quickly. There were always little giveaways in people's expressions, in the ways they moved. She could feel sometimes in her gut if something bad was going to happen - or something good, an opportunity that the Rebels had to seize on _right now_ \- because she processed what she saw so fast that she knew its meaning deep down, even before she could find the words to explain how.

And if it all sometimes felt like too _much_ , then that was just another reason to toughen up, to build shields in her mind and focus keenly on the task at hand. Her parents had taught her simple breathing and calming exercises. Her friend Amilyn came from a planet where meditation was prized as an art form, and Amilyn had taught her even more.

There wasn't anything mystical about it. It was natural and obvious.

And if she'd withstood Darth Vader's interrogation on the Death Star - a treatment known to break even Jedi Masters - well, that was just because Leia was a stubborn motherfucker. She remembered screaming in pain on the floor at his feet. She remembered the feeling like he was trying to drill a hole in her mind. She didn't know how exactly she'd kept him out, but Leia knew how to focus. Everything had depended on keeping him out, so she'd just doubled down and _focused_ on keeping him out, so hard that it even blocked out some of the pain. It had worked, but it had been so simple and ugly. It couldn't be the Force. It was just -

"Leia?" said Mon Mothma's voice somewhere. "Leia. Are you here with me?"

Mothma gently took Leia's hand, and Leia realized she'd been staring into space for some amount of time she couldn't guess at, thinking about these things.

"I'm fine," said Leia, but her voice sounded hollow, a droid's voice.

"Here," said Mothma, and handed her a stress ball.

It was an insultingly tiny thing, as if the problems in Leia's life were small enough to call _stress,_ but it was a complex texture that moved under her hand when she squeezed, and it got her to focus on her hand again. Her own body, here and now. She squeezed so hard that her knuckles went pale, and she reminded herself of the room she was in. The white desk, the walls, the stupid box of tissues, and Mon Mothma's face, composed but worried. The Death Star was over. Leia was here, not there.

"Do you want to stop for now?" Mothma asked. "This information isn't time-sensitive. You've heard me out for the first secret. The second can wait."

"No," said Leia, because Leia was a stubborn motherfucker. She didn't want to go to bed tonight and toss and turn, knowing that there were even _more_ secrets. "I want to know."

Mothma looked at her doubtfully. She didn't speak right away, which only gave Leia more time to stew over what she'd already been told.

"I could be a Jedi," Leia said at last. "The way Luke wanted to be." She stared at Mothma, still struggling to assimilate it. "I'm stronger than Vader."

Something sad seemed to move behind Mothma's eyes, but she didn't deny it. Mothma had already read Leia's report from the Death Star. She could infer exactly how Leia had drawn this conclusion.

"Yes, Leia," said Mothma. "It's possible you could be, with training. We all hoped it wouldn't be necessary to tell you until the danger was over. Luke was the one who had a Jedi watching over him. He should have had more time; he should have had the training that would let him take on Vader himself. But I don't know if it's possible for him to have that now."

"You want _me,_ " Leia concluded. "You want me to learn to fight like a Jedi and take Vader down myself."

Mothma had just told her that this was one reason she and Luke were separated. So that, if something awful like Vader came looking for Anakin's child, it would find Luke - and _not_ Leia.

Obi-Wan was dead. Yoda's whereabouts were unknown. All the other Jedi Leia knew about had died or gone missing over the years, thanks to the Inquisitors and other threats.

But the Inquisitors were gone now. _Vader_ must know, the same way Leia knew, that she was strong in the Force; but if he'd cared about that the way the Inquisitors had, he wouldn't have let her go today.

And now Leia was the Rebellion's last hope.

"I feel terrible asking you," Mothma confessed. "In fact, I'm not going to let you say _yes_ yet. Not without hearing the other secret, and then thinking it over for a day. You've had a terrible shock today, and you've done so much for the Rebellion already; it's not fair that we should need more from you. But these are desperate times, and without Luke..." She sighed. "If you do agree, there are some calls I can make. There is someone who I believe could train you."

"Vader has to pay for what he's done-" Leia insisted, leaning in, but Mothma stopped her with a quelling look. Mothma wasn't a harsh commander, but she said what she meant. If she'd said she wasn't letting Leia agree to this yet, then Leia wasn't going to get anywhere trying to do it.

She made herself sit back. "Then tell me the second thing."

Mothma nodded. "I'll warn you this one may be even harder, in its way. I told you Anakin wasn't with Padmé when you were born, and that is true. But it isn't for the reason you think. Anakin Skywalker didn't die in the Jedi Purge. None of us understand exactly what happened, how a man like him could have switched sides so quickly and completely. But at the very time the other Jedi were being killed, he betrayed them in favor of Emperor Palpatine. He participated in the massacre of the Jedi Order. He turned to the Dark Side."

Leia drew back, confused and disturbed. Luke couldn't have known this. Luke wouldn't have idolized his father if he'd known.

"Anakin and Obi-Wan fought," Mothma continued, "and Anakin was badly injured. Which only made it more convenient for him to take on a new appearance and a new name. Under this new identity he continued to serve the Emperor, and to root out his fellow Jedi wherever they could be found. Anakin Skywalker, your and Luke's biological father, became Darth Vader."

Dead silence descended for several seconds.

"Oh," said Leia, flat and distant.

There was a small _pop_ as her fist closed. The stress ball had abruptly fallen apart into a pile of fluff and plastifoam.

Mon Mothma cast a worried glance at Leia's hand, and then back at her face, and then sighed. "That's why Vader behaved so oddly today. What you saw wasn't war. It was a custody dispute."

Leia very carefully brushed all the bits of fluff off of her lap, one at a time. She remembered what she'd been taught about focusing. She took some very, very deep breaths.

She looked back up only when she was finished with that task. Her voice was hard and resolute. "It doesn't matter. It _shouldn't_ matter. He didn't raise either of us. When you've killed millions of innocent people, you don't get to call yourself anyone's father. Luke knows that. Luke would _never_ join Vader."

"I know." Mothma managed another weak smile. "I'm not worried about Luke in that way. From what I've seen, he has a good heart, and he will act according to his conscience. What I want to stress is that this tells us a great deal about Vader's intentions - and about how we might go about getting Luke back. If Vader sees Luke as family, rather than as a prisoner, then he's unlikely to want to do permanent damage. He's also likely to speak about Luke more freely than he would about others. He might even try to announce Luke publicly, though we can't assume it. That means our best tactic here is not to stage an immediate rescue, but to employ our spies. I've already let a few of them know. With guile and care, we can work out where Luke is being held, and hopefully make contact. It will only take time."

This ought to have been a comfort to Leia, but it was not. She couldn't help but trace the plan's implications in her head. "It's a big risk. If what you're saying is true, Vader won't ever let him go."

"And do you think it should be up to Vader?" Mothma's gaze was calm and resolute. "We'll find him, Leia. This Rebellion isn't in the habit of leaving people behind."

*

People who had, in fact, been left behind:

Leia herself, until a farm boy and a smuggler happened along. Getting the Death Star's plans to the Rebellion, so as to save billions, was more important than saving one person. She'd understood that perfectly. She'd had no regrets.

The crew of Rogue One, trapped in the Death Star's path on Scarif. Saw Gerrera on Jedha, for that matter. The whole crew of the _Profundity,_ which Vader had torn through in a rampage trying to get the plans before they could be passed to Leia's ship. The _Tantive IV_ had fled as soon as the plans were aboard, leaving everyone still alive on the _Profundity_ to Vader's mercy. They'd all known why it had to be done.

Every single person on the surface of Alderaan.

That was what happened in a war. It wasn't fair. It wasn't supposed to be.

*

When she left Mon Mothma's office, her eyes were dry. Mothma had put her on twenty-four hours of leave and ordered her to take care of herself. Soldiers only functioned when their basic needs had been addressed. Leia saw the logic of it. But there was no hot bath or comfort vid or exercise that could bring back any of what she had lost.

Han was waiting for her in the hall, leaning insouciantly against the wall, arms crossed.

"Well?" he said.

Leia didn't know why he cared, but he _did_ care - about her, about Luke, about Chewbacca and their awful, constantly-broken ship, about all the other Rebels he'd adopted as his motley new family. This was Han's one redeeming quality. He pretended not to, but he cared about everything. He wouldn't rest until he knew Luke was safe again.

"Mothma had intel," she said, looking down. By rights she didn't have to tell him a thing. But some impulse told her that it was better if Han's nerves were soothed. "Luke's not an ordinary prisoner. Vader wants him for something specific. If we're right, then he should stay unharmed long enough for our spies to find him and get him out. But it's a deep cover operative's job, not ours. Beyond that, the details are need-to-know."

She strode past him in the direction of her quarters. Leia was going to follow her orders _efficiently._

"What if you need me to know?" Han called after her.

She turned to glare at him. Han liked to insist that Leia must secretly have feelings for him, and that she needed him in particular to stick around. It was ridiculous, of course. Han was too old for her, and too unreliable, and too forward, and in too much debt, and a scoundrel. Besides, Leia was going to be a Jedi now, and Jedi didn't do that sort of thing.

"Come on, Princess," he drawled. "I know you've got feelings in there."

"And you're not cleared for them," Leia snapped. She turned and walked away before he could respond.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luke has nothing to wear and is embarrassed by everything, breakfast fails to meet expectations, a wild Force Ghost appears, and Vader's favorite medical droid makes up an excuse to meet Luke for herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who didn't read the previous fic: "Neap" is Ninth Sister from "Jedi: Fallen Order"; when the Inquisitors were disbanded, she picked a new name instead of going back to her old one.
> 
> Some mentions of slavery again, but nothing else really warnable in this chapter.

Luke stood looking pensively at the door Darth Vader had just shut in his face.

This whole fortress gave him the creeps. Vader had said there was a Dark Side node underneath it, and Luke didn't know what that was, but he didn't like the sound of it. Everything felt _off_ here, like the air itself was in pain, and he couldn't tell if that was his fevered imagination or if the Dark Side always felt like that.

Luke was exhausted, but he didn't think he could sleep in this black bed, surrounded by lava, with Darth Vader only a few floors below. And without Vader actually _here,_ for Luke to pepper with questions and complaints, the situation was finding new ways to sink in.

He was here. In Darth Vader's fortress.

Because Darth Vader was his father.

Because Ben Kenobi, who'd told Luke he was the heir to something beautiful and exciting, had _lied._

Luke closed his eyes, as he'd so often done after Yavin, hoping desperately to hear another whisper of Ben's voice.

"Ben," he called aloud, as softly as he could. "Ben, why...?"

He tried to open his mind, to trust his instincts. He didn't really know what he was doing, but the Force must be strong here, even if it was mostly the Dark Side. He tried to _feel_ it.

All he got was that _off_ feeling, louder than before. There was pain around him, caked into the very stones of this building, pain like fire and ash and screaming rage-

Luke pulled back and snapped his eyes open, panting. Okay, that had been a bad idea. He wasn't going to do that again.

He paced the room, looking at the furniture more closely. All of it was black and gloomy and strange. The intercom was right where Vader had said it would be, but Luke didn't like the idea of having servants. The closet was empty. The fresher, picked out in black marble and volcanic glass, was not. It had been stocked with supplies like a hotel: black towels with scarlet embroidery, soaps and shampoos, a pristine toothbrush and hairbrush, a razor and shaving cream, a bottle of boot polish.

Trusting of them, Luke thought darkly, to give him a razor. But it wasn't like that little blade would do much against Vader.

Looking at the shower reminded Luke that he'd been sweating in the hot sun for much of today - and then sweating with fear on the shuttle. But he balked at stripping down for a shower in the middle of an evil fortress. Besides, he didn't have another set of clothes to change into.

Actually, that was going to be more of a problem than he'd thought.At the Rebel base Luke had a bunk in a shared room with several other young male soldiers, and they mostly wore either undershirts and undershorts or pajamas. Luke's current underwear would be serviceable, if sweaty, but even if he slept that way, he was going to need something to wear _tomorrow._

He looked again in the closet. There were some magnetic hangers, but nothing hung on them. He stood on his tiptoes and rummaged through the shelf at the top, but it didn't have anything except a spare blanket and pillow. He stormed through the bedroom and took out all of the drawers in the dresser, even checked the fresher cupboards, but there was nothing.

He hovered next to the intercom, acutely embarrassed.

He pressed the button.

A holo-image of an old woman in a hooded cloak sprang into being above the table almost immediately. She bowed. Luke decided that he did not like being bowed to.

"Your Highness Luke," said the woman. Her voice was muffled slightly because it was pointed at the floor. "We are at your service. What do you require?"

"Uh. Hi," said Luke. "You can just call me Luke, that's fine. I just - don't have any pajamas." He felt heat rising to his face. "Or any clothes. At all."

The woman looked up, eyeing Luke critically as if to judge his size over the holo-connection. "One moment, Luke. I'll be right up."

The hologram winked off, and he waited for an anxious minute. Luke wasn't sure what kind of servants these were. He didn't know if Vader paid them or not. He didn't know if they'd come to the job voluntarily or not. Maybe he should have sucked it up and slept naked.

Before long the doors opened and the woman from the hologram entered the room, carrying a tape measure. She rushed to him with surprising speed, muttering under her aged breath. "My utmost apologies, Luke. We were not told to expect you, but we should have been prepared. This was an oversight ill-befitting your station. It will be made right immediately."

"It's fine," Luke protested, as the woman waved the tape measure around, measuring his height and his waist and the length of his limbs. Was this necessary? She could have just asked him what size shirts he wore. "I bet you must have been as surprised as I was. What's your name?"

"My name is Giana, Luke," she said. The way she tacked his name on to every statement was strange - as if it was an honorific to be used the same way as "your highness." She finished her brisk measurements and rolled the tape measure back up. "The fit won't be exact, but I believe I can find nightclothes that will suffice for tonight. By tomorrow morning you will have a basic wadrobe better suiting your rank. Again, I wish to apologize on behalf of the whole fortress. Surprise is no excuse-"

"Of course it is," said Luke, chagrined.

"As you wish, Luke," Giana said blandly, looking down.

Luke wasn't used to Imperial servants. On Tatooine when people groveled like this, it meant someone owned them. In a place like this, it might just mean they were scared of what Darth Vader would do. But was that really very different, deep down?

"Does Emperor Vader pay you?" he blurted.

Giana's eyes flicked up to his. "Of course, Luke. Our needs are provided for." It had the air of being rehearsed. It also had the air of being the only answer he was ever going to get out of her.

"Did he-" Luke wasn't even sure how to word this. "Did he make you take the job?"

"Not at all."

Most freed slaves, on Tatooine, kept to themselves and led quiet lives. Many dedicated themselves to helping other slaves get free. But there were a tiny number who went on to flaunt their new freedom and power by buying slaves themselves, treating them just as harshly as a freeborn master. Those people had never made sense to Luke, and it was a small relief if Vader was not one of them. Not that it excused any of the other stuff.

And there was a _lot_ of other stuff.

Luke sat down heavily on the bed, feeling a wave of self-pity. "Well, _I_ didn't get a choice about being here. I'm a Rebel! Vader just showed up and it was either this or let him kill my friends. That doesn't make me a prince - it makes me a prisoner. Right?"

"No, Luke," said Giana, with an odd pity on her face, as if Luke was a little kid who'd said something tragically naive. "If you were a prisoner, this would be going _very_ differently."

*

He slept fitfully, tossing and turning. Giana had scrounged up sleep clothes for him - from where, he didn't want to ask. A soft black pair of pajama pants and a gray undershirt, both maybe a size too big, but perfectly clean. He'd also found a control panel by the window. When he pressed the right button, the window turned to a uniform dark gray and he didn't have to look at the lava anymore.

That didn't fix the feeling like the air hurt, or the way he missed his friends, or the answers he needed.

The urge to reach out with his feelings again was strong, even though he knew better. Several times he slipped into vague dreams where he almost saw Ben. Twice he woke up like that, reaching out as if he was trying to chase the old Jedi Knight down, calling his name.

The second time, when he blinked awake, Ben was sitting in front of him.

"I'm here, Luke," said Ben. He was visible in the darkness of the room, transparent and faintly luminous and he looked more tired and worried than Luke had ever seen him.

Luke gaped. "Ben?!"

"Yes, it's me." Ben grimaced. "I can't stay long. The Force is strong here, but not in what you'd call a good way, and I can't risk being discovered. But you were calling so loudly-" He rubbed his forehead. Could ghosts get headaches?

"Is it true?" said Luke. "Is Darth Vader my father?"

Ben looked away and down. "He is, yes. From a certain point of view."

"Then why did you lie?"

Luke felt stuck on this somehow. He had never really known Ben all that well, but something about the old Jedi had felt safe and familiar. He'd told Luke exciting secrets that _felt_ true, things nobody in his actual family had been brave enough to tell him. The betrayal of it stung.

Ben sighed. "Because the truth is a burden. And it was only partially a lie. Anakin turned to the Dark Side so suddenly and completely. He betrayed everything he ever stood for. To the people who were there at the time, it felt very much as though he'd died and been replaced by something terrible. Even now, I'm not truly sure how much of the old Anakin is in there."

Luke furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, e _ven now_? What changed?"

Ben sighed heavily and was silent a moment, as if trying to find the words.

"Vader says you stole me," Luke pressed. "When I was born. You told him I was dead-"

"No, I didn't _tell_ him anything," Ben said, irritated now. "We were far past talking at that point. Someone else must have told him that. When your mother died, I took you to Tatooine, but I did it to protect you. Vader had already turned to the Dark Side, and he was in no state to responsibly raise an infant." He sighed, and the flash of temper left him as quickly as it had come, replaced with a wry resignation. "So that's another matter of perspective, I suppose. Do you wish I hadn't?"

Luke thought about it for half a second, then shook his head. Being stuck in Darth Vader's fortress was bad enough. He couldn't imagine _growing up_ here.

"Is it because he killed the old Emperor?" he asked, returning to the previous topic. "Is that what changed?"

Ben looked into the distance. "That's not as good a sign as you'd think. But there have been... other things. Disturbances. I can't explain it in the little time that we have; I'm still not sure _I_ understand. It is clear that your father is, in some way, changing. But he is still very much on the Dark Side. It would be unwise to trust him."

There was something strange in Ben's expression. He was trying not to show it, but there was a kind of longing somewhere deep down under those bitter words. Ben and Anakin had been good friends. Ben _wanted_ to believe the old Anakin was still there. But he was afraid of what might happen if he let himself hope.

"I wasn't _going_ to trust him," Luke argued. He had felt a curiosity about his father in certain moments on the shuttle, almost pity, but that wasn't the same as trust.

"Ah, but you'll be tempted." Ben looked back at Luke finally, urgent and pained. "Listen, Luke. If you remember nothing else, remember this. You _must_ not turn to the Dark Side, not even for a moment. If you let anything turn you that way - whether Vader himself, or simply the energy of this place - then everything we have fought for will be lost."

Luke blinked. "He said he wasn't going to do that. He said he'd sworn he wouldn't take an apprentice."

Ben blinked back, the conflict on his face plainer than ever. "Did he say that? But that would mean-"

Then suddenly the ghost twitched and turned his head, startled, like he'd heard a loud noise. He went pale.

"I have to go," he said, and vanished.

Luke sat there blinking in the suddenly-empty room. It seemed darker in here somehow without the ghost.

A second later, Luke's door opened. A servant stumbled in - a man in his fifties, younger than Giana, but wearing the same kind of dark cowl. He was panting, as if he'd run all the way up here, and he looked quickly back and forth as if expecting to see something. Luke was still wearing his pajamas, but he pulled the blankets further up over himself anyway.

"My apologies, Luke," said the servant. "Emperor Vader woke suddenly; he said he felt a presence. And you sounded like you were speaking to someone..."

Luke shook his head.

"No," he said, staring into the darkness. "Just a bad dream."

*

Luke fell back asleep again somehow, but not deeply. When he woke up, he felt a little more stable. It still felt like the very air around him was hurting and angry and afraid - but the feeling had gone into the background somehow, like a rumble in the distance or a faint funny smell. It wasn't gone, but now that he'd been in it for a while, he could ignore it better.

He should stay here for two days, he figured. Two days was plenty enough time for the Rebels to leave Vrogas Vas and take everything important with them, even if there were problems on the way. He shouldn't do anything in those days that could invite retaliation - no actual escape attempts, no sabotage, not until he knew for sure that he was only risking himself. But that didn't mean he had to be idle. He could gather information.

The Rebellion didn't know very much about Darth Vader, after all. They knew he was dangerous and evil. They didn't know his origins, his motives, his daily habits, where he lived, any of the little things that could be used to plan campaigns against him. Even Ben didn't know why he'd fallen or what was going through his head now. Luke was better positioned to learn those things than any other Rebel ever had been.

And he needed to know for his own sake, too.

Here was what Luke Skywalker had figured out about Darth Vader so far:

He badly wanted to be Luke's father. He wanted it more than he wanted to kill Rebels, even Leia, which was officially his job.

He seemed all-powerful, but he'd needed Tarkin's help to stage a coup. He had literal armies of people at his command, but he'd been alone in his shuttle.

He'd been born a slave, but he oppressed people. He'd been hurt by lava, but he lived in lava.

He was loudly and obviously on the Dark Side, but he seemed to think it wasn't a good thing.

There was a paradox here, and Luke needed to understand.

*

His new clothes were waiting in the hallway, a whole pile of them neatly folded just outside his door. Luke didn't like them very much. They had all the stiff correctness of the Empire and all the gilt of some kind of pompous planetary nobility. There were several suits in different colors - pressed trousers and a matching embroidered jacket, each one accompanied by a light inner tunic, underthings, and thin black gloves. Some of them had sashes, capes, or other add-ons. All of them were tailored to the measurements Giana had taken last night. Luke had _no_ idea how the servants had scared these up so fast. He was pretty sure he didn't want to know.

Resigned, he slumped to the fresher to take the shower he'd avoided last night. When he emerged, clean and dry, he put on the least obnoxious of the suits. The trousers and jacket were black with gold piping, and the black inner tunic was decorated with a more impressionistic splash of the same gold, diagonally down its front. Luke left the jacket and gloves off; it was about as hot as Tatooine here, and awfully humid.

Next to the different suits, there was a single pair of shiny black jackboots. Luke looked at them uneasily, then decided he was going to stay in just his socks for now. If that didn't work, he still had the simpler outdoor boots he'd worn when he got here.

Before he could figure out what he was doing next, the door swished open. The figure who trundled in wasn't another servant, but a 2-1B-type medical droid.

"Good morning, Master Luke!" it chirped - _she_ chirped, Luke corrected himself. The synthesized voice was high-pitched, in the range that droids only used when they wanted to be seen as female. "Glad you're awake. I'm just here to run a few non-invasive tests to make sure you're in perfect health. We've got to take care of you now that we've got you, right? Sit there." She gestured to the edge of the bed. "Or anywhere, really. This'll just take a second."

Luke cautiously sat down on the edge of the bed, suppressing a smile. He shouldn't trust an Imperial medical droid, but something about this one charmed him. She looked like a custom model, sticking close to the standard 2-1B body plan but with components of different thicknesses and materials. She seemed chattier than Tooie, the 2-1B unit Luke remembered from the Rebel base, but Luke liked chatty droids.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"My name's M4-R3K. You can call me Emfour. I'm Emperor Vader's personal medical droid." She took out a standard-issue scanner and started to wave it over Luke's body as he sat still. "But I take care of anybody at this fortress if they need it. So, you came all the way here from Vrogas Vas, huh? That must have been something."

Luke ran a tired hand through his hair. "It was something, all right."

"And you found out you're an Imperial Prince. How does that feel?"

"I'm not a prince," Luke objected. Giana's comment about prisoners was still on his mind - but surely _prince_ and _prisoner_ weren't the only two options. "Vader just showed up and kidnapped me and decided I was one. That's not the same as actually being one."

M4 seemed unimpressed by this argument. "He told you he's your father, right?"

"Yeah, and did he tell you I'm a Rebel?"

M4 waved a hand. "Rebel schmebel. I don't follow politics. Lord Vader is an Emperor, and the son of an Emperor is a prince. I mean, I could whip up a DNA test for you if you're not sure, but it seems pretty clear cut." She passed the scanner over his head, which he was pretty sure she'd already done. "He _really_ likes you, you know. I wanted to know about the mission he'd been on, but he wouldn't talk about anything else except, oh, I found my son, did you hear about my son, what do you think my son will need."

Luke frowned as M4 passed the scanner under his arms and behind him. "He was on a mission?"

"Yeah. Classified, though."

Yet he'd been alone, and without other weapons besides the lightsaber, when he came to get Luke. "Does he talk to you a lot?"

"Oh, all the time. It depends on his mood, of course. But you might have noticed he has some health problems. So we end up needing to spend time together a lot."

"You mean because of the lava?" Luke asked.

M4 stopped what she was doing in surprise. "Did he tell you about that? Already?"

"Just that there was an accident. I guess it's none of my business." Luke squirmed slightly.

"It is _super_ none of your business. I mean, he can tell you what he wants to tell you, but it's up to him, see? I can't tell you how many people have tried to press _me_ for details. Like they never heard of doctor-patient confidentiality. But the fact that he has health problems, that's not a secret. I mean, everybody can hear the respirator, right?"

Luke looked more closely at M4. She was definitely a custom model, and she looked like she'd been maintained with care. There was no rust or dirt on her chassis, and everything moved very smoothly. All droids had personalities - there were traits and modes of thinking built in to the very structure of their processors. But M4 acted like the kind of droid who didn't get her memory wiped much, or maybe at all. It took time for a droid to develop quirks and independence like hers, or to form their own plans that weren't exactly what they were instructed to do.

Luke was pretty sure she had not, in fact, been instructed to come check on him.

These kinds of droids were Luke's favorites, though. M4's opinionated chat reminded him of Artoo, which brought a lump to his throat. He hadn't gotten to tell Artoo goodbye.

She was definitely _not_ the kind of medical droid he would have expected to find waiting on Darth Vader.

"Did Vader build you?" he asked.

M4 drew herself up, as if it was a point of pride. "You bet. He's my Maker. He makes things, you know."

Luke tried to imagine Darth Vader, two meters tall in his black armor and cape, crouched in some garage putting intricate mechanical pieces together, oiling joints, checking parts for wear. He tried to imagine Vader, who treated human lives like obstacles to impatiently push through, taking the time to keep something like M4 in good working order. Wasn't that an arresting image - the droid caring for Vader's injuries, and Vader caring for the droid.

Or maybe not. Maybe he got the servants to do all the boring maintenance stuff. That seemed to be what he'd done with Luke.

"Well," said M4 at last, withdrawing her scanner. "Good news, Master Luke. You're a little stressed and sleep-deprived, but otherwise in perfect health. Nothing wrong with you at all. I guess I don't have an excuse to keep you any longer, unless you want that DNA test-"

"No, I'm fine," Luke said quickly.

"Okay. Well, then, you'd better put your shoes on and get going to to the dining hall, because breakfast's ready. Seventh floor." She lowered her voice conspiratorally. "Lord Vader told the servants to pull out _all_ the stops. Oh, and Master Luke?"

"Yeah?" he said, looking uneasily at the boots. He didn't want them, and he didn't like that the servants had needed to do so much work on short notice.

M4 drew herself up even higher than before, actually extending her spine a few inches through some hydraulic mechanism. "I don't care that you're a Rebel. That's fine. But if you break Lord Vader's fatherly heart at a time like this, then I will one _hundred_ percent murder you all by myself. Okay? Glad we had this talk. Go have fun."

*

Luke went to the seventh floor in his stocking feet, just to spite everyone. He wasn't afraid of M4. The stone floor was a little slippery without boots, but he managed. The door to the dining hall was easy to find, and it opened smoothly, but not to the kind of scene Luke had expected.

The room was decorated like the rest of the fortress, in gloomy reds and blacks, with a big window looking out over the lava. But the table inside was only big enough for four or five people - and it was set for three. On delicate red and white china stood a pile of food far too big for three people: pancakes piled with fruit and chocolate, glazed dinner rolls stuffed with eggs and crisp meat, an apple pie, a platter of even more fruit, nuts, and meats in delicate bite-sized slices. Tall pitchers of caf, juice, milk - with a pinkish undertone - and other drinks Luke couldn't even identify.

Vader wasn't in the room. One of the servants - the man who'd woken Luke in the middle of the night - stood poised in his black hooded cloak, ready to serve or pour whatever was required. Two people who didn't look like servants stood by two of the place settings, at military ease. One of them was an Imperial officer in the standard gray uniform. The other was a huge alien woman, a Dowutin, eight feet tall and orange-skinned. A pair of thick white horns jutted from her chin, and a pair of red lenses covered her eyes, one of which had been replaced by some kind of implant. Both of them radiated awkwardness, like the very idea of Luke was something that they couldn't wrap their heads around, even when they'd been ordered to.

The table was spread with small streamers of white, red, and black confetti, and a hastily-printed banner that said _WELCOME HOME, PRINCE LUKE._

Luke wished that he could sink down and let the ground swallow him up. Then he remembered that most of the ground here was lava and retracted the wish. He couldn't remember ever being so embarrassed in his life.

The servant gave him a small bow. "Luke, this is Neap and Captain Firmus Piett. Neap and Captain Piett, as you've inferred, this is His Highness Prince Luke. Please be seated. Our only concern is your comfort; if there is anything lacking, or anything else you require, please only ask-"

"It's fine," said Luke, waving him away. "It's _fine._ I don't need any of-" The servant shrank back slightly, the beginnings of a horror at having displeased his master's son on his face, and Luke hurriedly corrected. "The food is fine, the serving is fine, everything is _fine_ Idon'tneedanythingelsethankyou. I can serve myself."

He sank down ungracefully into his chair.

The servant looked at him, apprehensively questioning.

Neap, the Dowutin woman, looked between Luke and the servant, and then spoke in a gruff voice. "I think what the prince means to say is he needs a little space."

"As you wish, ma'am," the servant said uncertainly. He glanced at Piett. "And for yourself?"

"I'll go with the majority, thank you," said Piett in the blandest, most distant possible tones.

"Of course," said the servant, and he bowed again and scuttled out of the room as Neap and Piett took their seats.

The Rebels didn't often have food this good, but even the blandest rations were shared in a communal mess hall, with clumps of friends laughing and joking and trash-talking together. Not everyone was as popular as Luke - he had become a kind of minor Rebel celebrity after Yavin - but even the quiet Rebels who kept to themselves, the ones who rambled or smelled funny and annoyed everyone, would still see all their teammate come by for commiseration or congratulation when anything important happened. On Tatooine, people were pretty spread out, and flaunting a good harvest meant risking Hutt attention. But families still consorted with the families near them when they could, sharing in the good times, helping in the bad ones, celebrating together when there was something worth celebrating.

Darth Vader was wealthier and more powerful than anyone in either of those groups; people were afraid enough of him to obey almost any order. And his servants could scare up a feast like this on only one night's notice, while also scrambling for clothes. Yet on an occasion as important as the arrival of his long-lost son, the only people Vader could muster to celebrate him were these two, who looked almost as embarrassed by the whole thing as Luke felt. Vader had said that the other Imperials didn't like him, but that was becoming apparent in a new way.

Even Emperor Tarkin wasn't here. Although Luke didn't exactly want _him_ to be here, so maybe this was fine. Maybe the less Imperials who had to see Luke like this, the better.

"Where's Vader?" Luke asked. "Um, does he eat?"

"I believe the Emperor prefers to take his meals in private," said Piett. "He's a late riser. I'm told he's awake and undergoing his preparations for the day, but he wanted us to proceed with the breakfast without him."

"Oh, okay."

Luke stared at the food until it became apparent that, by some Imperial protocol, neither of the other two were going to touch any of it until he did.

"Sorry," he said, pushing himself to snap out of it. "My manners. This is _not_ how I usually eat." He pulled a pancake and one of the dinner rolls onto his plate and began to pour himself a glass of the pink milk. "Farm boy. You know."

Neap was eyeing him in something that looked like dry amusement. "Kid, he's wining and dining you instead of putting you in a torture chair. Count your blessings."

"A what?!" said Luke, but he understood the word _torture_ and the word _chair_ and there was nothing mysterious about how they went together. He shouldn't have been startled. For a moment, he had started to feel sorry for Darth Vader - but he couldn't afford to forget what his father really was.

Neap didn't bother to explain. Luke stuffed most of the dinner roll into his mouth in sheer embarrassment. It tasted very good, which somehow made it worse.

Chewing and swallowing it seemed to break some unspoken hold over the other two, and they both began to serve themselves. Piett took a modest helping, beginning with a single roll; Neap piled her plate high with some of everything.

"So what do you guys do?" Luke asked, curiosity beginning to win out. He was supposed gather information, after all. Piett had a normal rank, but he had no idea where Neap fit into the Empire. "Do you live here?"

"I am a captain in the Imperial Navy, Your Highness," said Piett. "I'm normally stationed on Emperor Vader's flagship, the _Executor._ But at the moment I've been moved to Fortress Vader so as to give the Emperor his morning briefings until such time as the servant he favors for that job has earned the necessary clearances."

"Cool," said Luke, even though it wasn't really. He looked at Neap. "What about you?"

Neap shrugged. "I was an Inquisitor until a few weeks ago. Now I'm freelance. I'm just heading out after breakfast, actually. I was only staying here long enough to help Emperor Vader with one mission. I think he's gonna want some privacy while he figures out the fatherhood thing." She took a long, deep swig of caf. "Or at least _I'm_ not being paid enough to help him sort that out."

Somehow that gave Luke a sinking feeling. Even the friends that Vader did have here were temporary.

He poured an unidentifiable syrup on his pancake. This place was going to be unsettling the whole two days he was here, and Luke couldn't keep balking every time something bothered him. He was going to just have to get used to being bothered. He started pulling the pancake, and the pile of fruit and chocolate that had come with it, into bite-sized pieces.

Then his mind caught up with him and he raised his head. "Wait, you're an Inquisitor?" He could see it, now that he was paying attention - there was a lightsaber hilt at her belt. It was different from Luke's or Vader's or Obi-Wan's, with a circular shape surrounding the handle.

"Was an Inquisitor. That's not a thing anymore." She smiled unpleasantly, showing big, jagged teeth. "You know what that means, right? If we'd met a month ago I would have been trying to kill you. Or worse."

Luke found himself leaning forward, interested despite himself. He knew the Inquisitors were terrible, but nobody knew much about them, and this one was under orders _not_ to kill him now. And finding a scrap of common ground with someone at this table, terrible as they were, seemed better than looking awkwardly down at his plate the whole morning. "Yeah, but you use the Force! That's cool. I don't know anything about the Force. I'm supposed to use it, but Ben died before he could tell me, and Vader took my lightsaber, and-"

"Kid." Neap cut him off. "Inquisitor means _Dark Side,_ remember? You don't want to be trained how Vader trained us. Trust me."

Luke felt his face flush. Of _course_ he didn't want Dark Side training - he was insulted that she'd thought he did. He hadn't wanted it even before Ben warned him off. He'd just - been curious. Neap had facial expressions, unlike Vader. She seemed better than him at answering questions.

But her warning was so eerily similar to Vader's. _Pray that you never find out._

Why were they all on the Dark Side if they hated it so much?

Neap looked at him with an expression he couldn't read - it might have been caution, pity, amusement, contempt.

"You want to know about your father," she said at last.

Luke nodded reluctantly. "I didn't even know he was my father until yesterday. None of this makes sense."

"What do you want to know?"

The question felt strange. Not an offer, but a test. There was a prickle along Luke's skin, something that raised goosebumps on his arms, something that told him he'd better pick a good question, if he wanted any answers, ever.

So he went for the biggest one.

"Why did he turn to the Dark Side?"

Neap drew back slightly. Everything was silent for a moment, and then she let out a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, hells no. That one's past my pay grade. You want to know that one, get him to tell you himself." She raised an eyebrow. Luke sensed somehow that, even though she'd refused to answer, the question had impressed her. Or at least broken some ice. "I'll tell you one thing, though. For free."

"What?" said Luke, maybe a little more eagerly than he wanted to admit.

"He's a real twisted garbage heap of a human. But he's not what you think. And he needs you." She popped an obscenely big forkful of pancakes into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Her gaze remained fixed on Luke's. "Whether or not you want to meet that need - that's the hard part. And you get to decide that one for yourself."

She wouldn't say another word about it, or about Vader at all, through the whole excruciating meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you wearing the chanel boots? no, i'm not
> 
> (lego batman sadly microwaving a lobster dot gif)
> 
> next chapter: Tarkin :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the one person capable of making Vader face consequences does so, an extremely fraught dinner is planned, Tarkin gets a new wardrobe, and Thalassa Motti wants to speak to the Empire's manager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first Tarkin POV chapter we've had since, like... 2/3 of the way through the last fic. So we're gonna get his recapped reactions to how a lot of THAT went down, as well as to the Luke thing. This means that if you have an interest in reading "Strike Me Down; I Am Unarmed" but wanted to do so without LARGE ENDING SPOILERS, you should... probably go do that now. This fic'll still be there when you're done.
> 
> It also means that in the first half of the chapter, those pesky Mentions Of Suicide will be fairly thick on the ground. And Tarkin, given who he is as a person, will not always be the most circumspect or sensitive about them!
> 
> For those of you who didn't read the rest of the series, we're going with the names / general situations of most of Tarkin's family from Legends, but also changing up their details when I feel like it. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Emperor Tarkin woke early in the morning, as was his habit, in his broad canopy bed in the heart of the Imperial Palace. Natasi Daala lay curled next to him, with her long red hair spread out over the pillows. In sleep, her stern, impassive features had softened into a childlike peace. At least one of the two of them felt peaceful.

Natasi had comported herself well on the Exegol mission. She'd competently planned an excursion into unknown territory, defeated the traitor faction she found there, and with minimal casualties to her own side she had wiped out a sinister cult intent on resurrecting Emperor Palpatine - as well as the planet that it lived on, and a great deal of the Maw Cluster surrounding it. That cluster was a slight sticking point: the whole area around the collapsed Cluster was now a fiery death trap. The research projects that had been in development there would need to find a new home. But she knew that, and she knew how to proceed. She deserved a day off if she wished for one.

Vader, on the same mission, had not comported himself well at all. And that was what had kept Tarkin from sleeping soundly, even after all of Natasi's best efforts last night at helping work off his tension.

Tarkin was extremely fond of Darth Vader, but he knew Vader had never been entirely sane. Not since the accident that had condemned him to that life-support suit; and perhaps, in subtler ways, not even before that. It was something Tarkin had long accepted about him; Tarkin preferred to judge people by whether or not they could make themselves useful, not whether they fit some pampered doctor's requirements. He knew how to rein in Vader's violent moods and keep him on task.

Since the coup, though, Vader's mental health had worsened. It was illogical - he was free now, he was  _Emperor_ now, Tarkin had thought it would make him  _happy_ \- but he had somehow become even more fixed on his self-loathing and grief than before. The Exegol mission was, in part, meant to address that. But Vader had spent the whole mission acting out, refusing advice, frightening Natasi for no good reason, meddling with primal Dark Side energies in ways even Neap hadn't fully understood, and finally attempting suicide. And then he'd discovered Luke's existence and immediately flown away to find him, _alone,_ without even a security escort. He'd promised to return, but Vader was not the most reliable with promises, and the tone of the promise had not been reassuring.

That was why Tarkin had not slept well. He had been looking forward to this morning, hoping he would hear from Vader, yet dreading what Vader might want to say. And dreading, even further, that perhaps morning would come without Vader's return. Perhaps many mornings. Perhaps all of them.

But it _was_ morning now, for good or ill.

Tarkin slipped out from under the covers, wrapped his silver-gray bathrobe around himself, and padded barefoot through the Imperial Suite to his private office.

He did not have to worry long. The comms console in his office blinked insistently, the signal that a message awaited him on his personal line. Very few other people besides Vader had access to this line, which bypassed the usual maze of secretarial aides and went directly to Tarkin. A quick look at the console confirmed that the message's origin was Mustafar. It had arrived in the small hours of the morning. He flicked a button and opened it.

Vader appeared before him instantly in miniature hologram form, in his beautiful dark mask and cape. It was more of a relief than was seemly, seeing Vader alive and willing to speak to him again, even asynchronously. There was no visible damage, but he looked exhausted.

"I have returned to Mustafar," said Vader. "Luke is with me. You and I have much to discuss, Tarkin. Call me when you can."

The message winked out again, abrupt even by Vader's standards.

Tarkin let out his breath, considering this. So Vader had returned as promised - in one piece, and still willing to communicate. He had brought Luke Skywalker back to Mustafar with him, which was surprising. Luke was a hardened Rebel insurgent, after all, with many reasons to despise Vader. Either he'd been brought around with astonishing speed, or Vader had captured him as a prisoner. Each scenario had its advantages and its dangers.

Either way, it only showed how serious Vader was about Luke. He had not merely gone to Vrogas Vas to ascertain the truth of Luke's existence, or to say hello, but to _acquire_ him. And that had certain implications, most of which Tarkin did not like.

After all, Luke Skywalker was the Rebel pilot who'd almost killed him two months ago.

Tarkin had come up with several speculative plans of action during the night, and he knew now which one of them he needed.

On a whim, he scanned the rest of his messages. He was up early even by his own standards, and he could afford to distract himself for a few minutes before he washed and dressed himself. There was nothing else in his personal inbox, but of course the console worked with other lines as well. There were a number of work messages waiting. Most routine correspondences addressed to the Empire could be handled by Tarkin's staff without ever reaching his eyes, but even the small fraction that did have to be routed to him took time.

Tarkin's work inbox contained the expected things. Various government officials wanted this and that. There were some minor military updates, but nothing momentous. And Thalassa, his ex-wife, had called again. She had been the one to insist, years ago, that they should not be married anymore, but now that Tarkin was Emperor, she was demanding privileges as a member of the Imperial family. Tarkin planned to ignore her for now and see how far she escalated, and whether or not she planned to involve the children.

Tarkin did have two grown children - Garoche and Rivoche - but of course there were no messages from either of them. They hadn't been on speaking terms with him since the divorce. Whether that was Tarkin's fault or Thalassa's was a matter of opinion.

When he'd skimmed the other messages, Tarkin checked the current time on Mustafar and scrolled through his schedule. In under an hour, his day would begin with a breakfast meeting, and then more meetings and planning sessions, most of them urgently important. Being Emperor properly, rather than hiding in his throne room as Palpatine had done, involved almost too many meetings to count. Tarkin's finger hovered over the late morning and early afternoon - Vader tended to be a late riser - and then came down decisively on the least vital of those activities. He flicked it away from the schedule display and pressed _confirm,_ which would notify the secretarial staff that this particular meeting should be delegated or postponed.

In the hour and a half that had suddenly been cleared, Tarkin wrote: _Deal With Vader._

*

Here is a small sample of the things Emperor Wilhuff Tarkin knew about Darth Vader:

He had once been Anakin Skywalker, one of the strongest and least irritating of the Jedi. He had parted from the Order on unfriendly terms and sworn himself to Emperor Palpatine's service. This had proved to be a bad idea, since Palpatine had been crushingly abusive. Even now that he was dead, the trauma he'd inflicted still haunted Vader's mind.

Vader was cleverer than he looked, but hot-tempered and impulsive, and he did his best thinking on his feet. He was highly adaptable and _very_ powerful. He and Tarkin worked together well. But should they ever, Force forbid, become enemies, Tarkin had no illusions as to how that would go.

He was a good lover, despite the life-support suit. He could do _very_ delightful things with the Force. There was a savage beauty to him in his mask and cape, a breathtaking strength in his limbs despite the injuries, and a slightly intoxicating air of power, as if he was more a force of nature than a man.

But he was, in fact, a man, and a much more vulnerable one than most people realized. More desperate for human connection. More hurt and afraid.

He was occasionally a danger to himself.

He was _always_ a danger to others.

He had badly frightened Natasi on the way to Exegol, cornering her with some half-coherent rant about how Palpatine was still posthumously controlling them all. She had, in turn, been furious last night when Tarkin explained to her about Luke. To hear her tell it, Vader was one step away from defecting to the Rebellion and annihilating the Empire.

Tarkin was not convinced it was _that_ dire. But there was, of course, a danger. It would be impossible to get rid of Vader's son directly, not if Vader didn't want that himself. So Luke would have to be suborned - or, at least, dissuaded from further rebellion - before he could put any traitorous ideas into his father's head.

And Natasi had been right about something else. In recent weeks, Tarkin had let the whole Vader thing get away from him. He'd run himself ragged in pursuit of a threat Vader saw in the Force - a ghost he'd said was some remnant of Palpatine, trying to possess him. But according to Neap's report, the ghost had not even really been a ghost, and possession had not been its aim. Tarkin had believed what Vader said about the ghost, even when Neap and Natasi were skeptical. He'd thrown every Imperial resource at Vader's problems in hopes that would give Vader some reason to live, but of course it had not, because wanting to live didn't work that way. He'd only made things worse.

The mission had not been an _entire_ waste. But now that it was over, Tarkin felt like a fool. It was time to reassert a few boundaries.

It was time to reassert a few boundaries _very carefully._

That was what Tarkin knew.

*

His new Imperial robes had finally arrived. Tarkin and the Imperial tailors had needed to come up with official regalia from scratch. Palpatine had preferred simple black cloaks, but for a new Emperor still working to be taken seriously, such garments lacked something. The tailors' first hurried attempt at royal robes had gone a little too far in the opposite direction. Too extravagant, too _capey,_ too much the garment of a decadent tyrant long-removed from real risks. Tarkin had worn that outfit anyway for a few weeks, so as to see if he got used to it over time. But he _had_ demanded a second attempt.

He looked at this second attempt critically in the mirror. The new robes, at least, fit well. They hugged his thin form in silky layers of blue-gray and black, gathered at the waist, trailing slightly on the polished floor behind him. A simple black mantle covered his shoulders and upper arms, trimmed with dark gray fur and set with a pair of sapphires. And then there was the Imperial circlet, of course, a simple band of polished silver that rested on his brow.

It was still a bit too much; he felt like some evil wizard from a holovid. He missed the harsh simplicity of his military uniform. But it was better than before.

He went to his breakfast meeting dressed like that, and the three other subsequent meetings. Imperial business was going to be extremely busy for at least the next few months, while they designed a replacement for the moribund Senate - not to mention the war of succession. The three remaining traitor factions were beginning to quiet, but they were by no means gone.

Tarkin had good mental discipline, and it was easy to focus on the complexities of this work, to bring his full attention to the galaxy that needed him, rather than getting distracted by his worry over Vader. Not until the hour of Dealing With Vader arrived, and he found himself alone in a private conference room with a secure comms connection, with a datapad and a cup of hot tea at his side.

 _Then_ he worried.

He took a sip of the tea, and a deep breath.

When the call went through, Vader's face swam into view. Not the mask, but his actual, naked face. This comms line went directly into the bacta tank in Vader's quarters. It showed him from the chest up, floating, connected by tubes to various life support machines. This had once been a line Palpatine used, so as to keep in touch with his apprentice even when Vader was unwell. Now Tarkin was the only living person permitted to use it.

Vader's skin was death-pale and riddled with scars of every type, in addition to the valves and other devices that pierced him here and there. His jowls sagged, and there were deep bags under his eyes. Vader without his suit was not what one would call _pretty,_ but Tarkin enjoyed the sight. He liked Vader's facial expressions, which were otherwise so thoroughly hidden. He liked remembering the times he'd been permitted to touch that fragile skin.

Was there something different about Vader's eyes? They seemed somehow cloudier than before, but over the imperfect comm connection, it was hard to tell.

He cleared his throat. "Vader. I'm glad you're awake; I got your message. I'm glad that you dealt successfully with the cultists on Exegol. I am particularly glad that you are, in fact, back on Mustafar in one piece, despite your own apparent best efforts. Do _not_ scare me like this again."

"You are angry." Vader peered at Tarkin blearily; his vision without the mask was not especially good. His voice without the mask was very different from the rich bass that most people knew. It was reedy and weak, transmitted through a small microphone in the transparent breath mask that he used within his tank. His tone was dry. "We have that in common. I only just woke up."

Tarkin narrowed his eyes. He was aware, of course, that Vader had reasons to be angry with him. He'd thought about _that_ all night, too. But he wasn't about to let that sidetrack him. "Vader, I delayed telling you about Luke for a day, but that was only because I had genuine concerns about your ability to handle the news when we had an urgent and perilous mission. I had every intention of telling you upon your return-"

"I am aware." There was a distant look on Vader's face. "The majority of my anger is against... others."

Tarkin sighed out a breath. Defensiveness, of course, was simply another way to be sidetracked.

"I know this must have come as a shock to you," said Tarkin. "I was rather shocked myself. I'd very much like to discuss Luke further, but given everything that transpired yesterday, I had a couple of other agenda items first."

Vader had no eyebrows, but he managed an ironic lift of the skin above his eyes. Even Tarkin usually wasn't stiff enough to refer to an important talk with his lover as _agenda items._ "As you wish."

Tarkin took another breath and another sip of his tea, refocusing. He was better than this. He was letting himself become visibly nervous. He knew exactly what he had to do in this conversation, but he did not relish it at all.

"You slept well?" he asked. Vader's ghost, or whatever it was, had attacked him in dreams every night. If its psychological cause was now resolved, as Neap claimed, then those dreams should have ceased.

"Well enough," said Vader, inferring his meaning. "I had restless dreams, but my ghost was not in them."

Tarkin felt his shoulders drop slightly. "Good. That _is_ what I wanted to talk to you about. I received Neap's report as well as Grand Admiral Daala's. You know how concerned I was about your ghost. You can infer how I felt upon hearing that it appeared to have been successfully exorcised, so to speak." He put down his tea and let his irate gaze bore into Vader's. "And how I felt upon hearing the original method by which you tried to remove it."

It was not possible for Vader to _blanch;_ his unmasked face was already as white as a human face could be. But the way his eyes widened was the next best thing. He knew exactly why Tarkin was angry.

"I'm told," said Tarkin, "that you attempted to trick Grand Admiral Daala into firing the prototype Death Star superlaser at Exegol while you remained sitting on some fanciful throne on that planet's surface. Is that correct?"

Vader's face twisted in shame and pain. He glanced downward.

"Did you have any reason to believe that your armor or your Force abilities would protect you," Tarkin pressed, "from an _actual superlaser?_ Or did you intend to die?"

Vader stared at the ground so stonily that for a moment Tarkin thought he would not answer. But after a tense moment he opened his mouth. "I believed that the ghost would possess me. But it could not possess another. It could only ever be tied to the line of the Sith. I am the current Sith master, and I have no apprentice. My physical death would destroy it and save the rest of you. That is what I believed."

"But there was no ghost," said Tarkin. "Was there?"

This was the crux of the matter. It wasn't just that Vader had been in danger, though that was bad enough. It was that all Tarkin's efforts to save him had only made them both look like fools.

Through the comm connection Tarkin could faintly hear Vader's breath, rasping in and out in its usual mechanical way.  "It was real. But it was not a ghost. It was a thing my mind did to itself. I know that now." His eyes did flick up towards Tarkin then, embarrassed and defensive. "I did not lie to you. I told you what I believed was the truth."

Tarkin lightly massaged his own temples. "I'm not angry that you told me what you believed to be true. I'm angry at myself, a little, for not questioning more. But I am _very_ angry at the rest of what happened yesterday, because it is my nature to be angry when there is a risk of losing the people I value most. Do you understand?"

There was something dark and strange in Vader's expression. "You understand hard choices and sacrifice. Had the ghost been real, you would have approved."

"I would _not,_ " said Tarkin. He leaned in. "And regardless of whether or not you had to sacrifice yourself, I am _particularly_ furious that you made _Natasi_ into an unwitting accessory. Do you have any idea of the trouble you might have caused for _her?"_

"She would have recovered," said Vader. "She dislikes my existence anyway."

"Vader-" said Tarkin, chagrined. He had imagined that, in a fit of Vaderishness, Vader must have gone for the most destructive possible action without considering how it would affect the people closest to him. He had not imagined Vader actually thinking it through, convincing himself that they would not mind. Somehow that was even worse.

Tarkin was a cold-hearted bastard. He had been raised that way and made his name out of it; it was one of his strengths. But he was capable of grief like any other man.

"It does not matter," said Vader more softly. "You need not use your anger to convince me that you care. I feel your care. And I no longer wish to die. I know things now that I did not then. This will not recur."

Tarkin could infer what those things were. Vader now knew that there was not, in fact, a ghost trying to possess him. And he also knew now that he had a son. It stung a little, knowing that Tarkin wasn't a reason for Vader to live, but Luke was. But Tarkin had known it might be like that. That was why he'd sent the flimsi with Daala as an emergency measure. Knowing exactly how erratic Vader's behavior might become. Knowing that, if he did threaten to die, the information on that flimsi might change his mind.

"You can't promise that, Vader. It's been one day. Less."

"Then what would you have me do?"

For all his bluster and violence, when Vader was handled correctly, he became... deferent. Tarkin had noticed it before. Vader knew he had caused undue distress, and he cared what Tarkin thought of him, so he would accept instruction as to how to make it right. There were vanishingly few people for whom Vader cared in that way. Fewer, now that Palpatine was gone. But Tarkin had been one of them for a long time, even before the two of them had been lovers. That was why he'd felt safe enough with Vader to begin a relationship in the first place. It was why he was able to steel himself for what he planned to say next.

"Let's make sure we are in agreement about thes facts," said Tarkin. "Whether or not you believe it will recur, you admit that you've been actively a danger to yourself as recently as yesterday."

"Yes," said Vader dourly.

"And you admit that your perception of reality has been unreliable."

Vader seemed to sink even further into himself. "Yes."

"And that this has been having deleterious effects on the people who try hardest to support you."

Vader narrowed his eyes, something ironic passing through his face. "Apparently so."

"I'm going to ask two things of you, and you're going to hate them both, but hear me out." He folded his hands, willing himself strength. "I want you to get therapy."

Vader went entirely still. Tarkin knew why the notion disturbed him. Vader's psychological problems had gone untreated for a very long time; treating them was, technically, against his religion. But Palpatine was no longer around to enforce those rules. And M4-R3K had expressed a definite interest in providing that treatment.

The real trouble was that Vader was afraid. Palpatine had used to abuse him by directly invading his mind, trying to correct any parts that didn't suit him. Therapy reminded Vader too much of that. And it was anyone's guess if an appropriate therapy even existed for Vader's problems. He wasn't only traumatized and mentally ill, he also used the Dark Side of the Force, and that had psychological effects of its own - effects which had never, to Tarkin's knowledge, been formally studied.

Still, if the droid had Vader's consent, she could at least _begin_ to address those things.

"Would therapy help me to deal with my son?" Vader asked at last.

Aha, Tarkin thought. So _that_ was the lever to pull. "You'd have to ask Emfour about that," he said; it would do no good to over-promise. "I'm sure she would also want to address other things, but I don't imagine that topic would be off-limits. And having a better handle on your own mind would help you deal with everyone, generally."

Vader visibly braced himself, then nodded, making his breathing tubes wobble. "Fine. I will ask. And the second thing?"

Tarkin squared his shoulders. This second thing was necessary, he'd known it all morning, but it was even more fearful than the first. "You're aware there are Imperial regulations as to physical and psychological fitness for command."

Some small amusement crossed Vader's face. "Those regulations have never applied to the Sith."

"I'm aware. But whether one considers him mentally healthy or not, Emperor Palpatine didn't try to use Imperial resources to destroy himself." Tarkin took a deep breath. He could not force Vader to accept this; he was not Vader's master. The official regulations allowed for removal of command by force - a sanctioned mutiny of sorts, if a commander was no longer competent to lead. But that was not possible with Vader. The only way this would be possible with Vader was if Vader agreed. "What I am asking, Vader, is that you voluntarily accept a temporary relief from command under those statutes. I will ensure you are treated with the respect and the freedom that an Emperor deserves, and that the information about your health is kept private. But you'd be formally giving up a few powers that you mostly haven't used - mainly, the ability to set policy and give military orders - until such time as Emfour certifies you can safely handle them again."

He had expected Vader to argue, at least at first. But Vader's expression, staring back at him through the comm connection, was only resigned.  Vader  _knew_ , surely, that he could no longer trust his own judgment. He knew what could happen to an Empire, a political structure based around absolute power, if the man holding that power went mad.

"This was our agreement," said Vader. "Do you remember? If you want the throne all for yourself, take it. But admit to me, at least, that this is what you are doing."

Tarkin pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

He remembered their agreement. Deep down, all Vader had wanted was to be free from his master. But, because his master had ruled the whole galaxy, overthrowing him was the surest way to do it. The political power that came with such a move was a thing Vader only hazily understood. He'd been the one to suggest sharing it.

He had asked for astonishingly little in return. Tarkin took the moment to mentally recite to himself Vader's demands. In exchange for the galaxy, Vader had wanted to keep Tarkin's attention. To be maintained in his accustomed lifestyle, lava fortress and all. To fight for the Empire only when he chose to, not on orders. And for Tarkin to take his opinions seriously.

But Tarkin had wanted to give him more. That seemed only fair - especially since Tarkin's own perceived legitimacy came mostly from Vader's backing. He had wanted to watch Vader grow into power in his own right, to share the joys and pressures of it. He had made a point of including Vader in decisions and introducing him to the people who helped make them. He had believed in Vader. He'd thought Vader could _take_ it.

He had not wanted things to turn out this way.

Yet there was a tiny doubt that squirmed in Tarkin's gut about this. About his own motives. Of course, Vader was objectively unfit for command. But it _was_ convenient, wasn't it, that he had such an impeccable means of removing Vader from power at a time like this. Vader's son was a Rebel, and Vader - at an impressionable time - was suddenly obsessed with him. If Vader _were_ to begin sympathizing with the Rebels, as Natasi had feared, how convenient that he would be deprived of the ability to do much about it. Regardless of whether he deserved a removal on medical grounds or not. Regardless of whether he deserved _any_ of this.

Vader believed Tarkin was doing this selfishly. For his own gain. Yet he acquiesced; because he had never expected better than this from Tarkin. Perhaps he had never expected better than this from _anyone._

It would almost have been easier if he had refused.

Tarkin sighed and looked back up, squarely meeting Vader's gaze. "I am taking it, Vader. But only until Emfour clears you for duty. For all I know, she might decide I've overreached here and clear you right away."

Vader's expression was stony. "As you wish."

Tarkin nodded. "I'll see about the paperwork and ensure that our staffs are informed. I'm sorry, Vader."

Vader did not dignify that with a response.

It was Tarkin's responsibility to get the rest of the conversation onto a better foot, then. Vader, if left to his own devices, would merely sulk. He reached for the tea, took a fortifying sip, and found to his dismay that it had gone cold. Grimacing, he swallowed, and then forced himself into something more like calm. The hard part was over; the conversation could only improve from here. "So tell me about this Luke, then. I am _very_ intrigued."

Vader's eyes lit up - even more quickly than Tarkin had expected. Tarkin couldn't recall when he'd last seen Vader so joyful about something. "He is alive and he is healthy and I have him. He is untrained, but his senses are strong. His head is filled with Rebel nonsense, of course, but he is beginning to understand the truth. He understands that Obi-Wan took him from me and that he was lied to all his life about his origins. He calls me 'father.' He dislikes me, but-"

And then Vader broke off, seeming to search for the right words in a morass of complex, conflicting ones.

"I have promised him that he will be an Imperial Prince," said Vader. "Is that still the truth?"

Tarkin ran his finger around the handle of his teacup. "I need to make it very clear that this Empire has never made use of hereditary succession. If it did work that way, we'd both have to abdicate in favor of Palpatine's son."

Palpatine did have a son - a fact Tarkin had only discovered in the coup's aftermath; he still had no idea how that had happened, or who the mother was. Fortunately the young man in question seemed uninterested in politics; he had chosen to live in obscurity, with a couple of Imperial intelligence agents keeping half an eye on him, and to spend most of his time drinking to excess. Given what Palpatine must have been like as a father, this was perhaps understandable.

"I don't think we ever discussed what courtesy titles ought to apply," Tarkin continued, "to the non-inheriting members of an Emperor's family. But 'Prince' is an obvious choice." Come to think of it, that was one of the things Thalassa kept calling about. "That also answers the question of what I ought to call Garoche and Rivoche, if they ever bother to acknowledge me. Should I make it the official term?"

"Yes," Vader said firmly.

Tarkin smiled slightly. He couldn't imagine that Luke was as eager to be called a Prince as Vader was to call him that. "You must be excited, if you're offering Imperial titles to a Rebel boy who still dislikes you. I was honestly surprised that you got him to Mustafar. Did he go with you willingly?"

"Yes," said Vader, in an oddly defensive tone, which Tarkin suspected meant _no._

"How did you manage that?"

"I went to the coordinates listed. He was in the midst of training exercises with his Rebel friends. I explained that they could surrender him to me, or I could take him myself and destroy any obstacles in my way. At that point, he gave himself up."

"Ah," said Tarkin, amused. Of course it was something like that. Short of physically picking Luke up and carrying him kicking and screaming onto the shuttle, this was the most direct route. "You refrained from killing his friends until you had him safely in the shuttle, I'm sure."

Vader looked away, strangely abashed. "I did not kill his friends. I kept my word."

Now, _that_ was unlike Vader. Tarkin drummed his fingers against the table. "Vader, in all our excitement over these family matters we haven't forgotten the definition of the word _Rebel,_ have we? They're still a group of violent revolutionaries bent on annihilating the Empire as we know it, yes? All of whom would leap at the chance to see both of us dead?"

Vader waved it away. "They are that. Technically."

" _Technically,_ " Tarkin repeated with an arch of his brows. "Have you forgotten already what this Luke of yours _technically_ did to the Death Star?"

"Grand Admiral Daala believed that to be sabotage," Vader pointed out. "From within. As did several of your analysts-"

"Are you denying that he fired the shots?" Tarkin pressed. "Are you denying that he almost killed _me?_ "

"I am not." There was something darkly ironic behind Vader's eyes. "And I almost killed him for it already, before we knew he was my son. There will be no more of that. The Rebels will be crushed, but my son is no longer a Rebel. He only needs time to accept it. And none of the three of us, not him or me or you, will ever harm each other again. I will _see_ to that, whether I am Emperor or not. I am free now, and I choose that path."

Tarkin took a deep, affronted breath. He wanted to argue. But he could see the threat implied in Vader's tone. Vader had acquiesced to being stripped of command, but this was different. This lay at Vader's very core.

And Tarkin knew why. He knew the grief Vader had carried for nineteen years, believing he'd killed Luke and Luke's mother. He knew Vader's deep-seated horror of harming his loved ones. He knew how firmly Vader liked to insist that his old self was dead. Tarkin could imagine, though he could not fully comprehend, what it would mean to Vader to see something of that old life return from the grave. He knew the knife-edge that was Vader's will to live, and he knew that a great deal of it now rested on Luke and Luke alone.

Luke was a threat that could _not_ be removed, only managed and, ideally, suborned. Tarkin had known that already.

At least Vader was still with him on the _suborned_ part.

"Well," Tarkin said, "you're entitled to a family after what you've been through. I imagine it will be difficult, though, convincing him he's not a Rebel anymore. What's your plan?"

"I explained to him the truth. I told him that he will be treated with all the luxuries a Prince deserves. I showed interest in his life, and I let him ask questions of me. I did not hurt even a single one of his friends. He still insists that he is my prisoner and not my son, even when he calls me 'father.'" He looked up at Tarkin with his strange yellow eyes. Tarkin still couldn't work out why he felt there was something different about those eyes. "I am not accustomed to... winning people over. I was hoping to ask for your help."

Tarkin had expected to feel a lot of things during this call. He had not expected to feel _comforted._ Yet the fact that Vader would still ask him for help, of his own volition, with _this,_ after everything that had just happened... That was good. That was an immensely reassuring sign.

He did not want to lose Vader. In a way, that was still the whole point of this.

"Of course," Tarkin said. "Take my parenting advice with a grain of salt; you're aware my own children aren't speaking to me. But I confess the whole problem intrigues me. I'd very much like to meet Luke for myself. Perhaps the two of you could come to the palace. There are endless entertainments here on Coruscant for a young man, and I imagine the royal treatment here goes much further than it does on Mustafar. When I've gotten to know him, I'll be able to give more specific help."

It was the age-old question of the lash versus the lure. Luke clearly could not be harmed. Fear - Tarkin's preferred weapon - was therefore largely off the table. But there were other things that motivated people. At the impressionable age of nineteen, having only recently joined the Rebels, Luke might be easier to sway from that cause than his kill-count suggested.

"Yes," said Vader. "I would like for him to see the palace."

Tarkin took out his scheduling datapad and flipped through it again. "Let me set something up for you in, say, three days time." He didn't bother asking if that matched Vader's schedule; neither Vader nor Luke had a work schedule anymore. "I can clear out that afternoon and evening for the both of you. We could show Luke around the palace and set up a dinner in style. Nothing large or public yet. Just a small function for the Imperial Family. Would you like that?"

"Yes," said Vader, and in spite of all the hurtful things Tarkin had just said, there was a strange eagerness in his eyes, a poignant longing. Tarkin furrowed his brow for a half-second, and then he realized-

Oh.

Without even thinking about it, he'd called the three of them a family.

Despite himself, Tarkin felt his expression soften. "Well, then. I'll make it happen. In the meantime, my advice is to remember that these things take time. Don't overdo it; you'll sabotage your own efforts if you try too hard. Give him time getting to know you and time to himself. Show him things in your fortress he'll enjoy, like the workshop. Tell him little things about yourself, nothing too distressing, just enough to pique his curiosity. If he asks you for any simple material thing, provide it. And don't be astonished when that doesn't make him love you immediately. I'm sure he's as stubborn as you are. It's too much to expect him to renounce the Rebel cause yet - or to be fully trustworthy to us yet, either. Do remain aware of that. But within common sense bounds, enjoy having him for now. You're planting the seeds that will help to win him over later. We'll work on the rest as we can."

He was surprising himself with how much this problem interested him. There was something almost whimsical about it, utterly unlike affairs of war and state. Certainly more pleasant than fearing for Vader's life.

If only Luke hadn't been a Rebel, this state of affairs would have been ideal. It gave Vader not only a reason to live, but something to _do,_ an interesting personal matter with which to occupy himself while he was off work. It gave him a reason to want to improve himself through therapy, though that process would be slow. It gave him a lot of things he needed. And though Tarkin was loath to admit it, he _had_ missed having a family. If they handled this carefully, perhaps they could make it work.

Actually, that gave him another idea.

"We will." Vader smiled. "I will call again tomorrow. And I will see you in three days."

"Thank you, Vader." Tarkin's smile in return was a little wan, but it would serve. "I know things have been difficult. But I am still yours, I hope."

"Of course." Those strange eyes looked back at him with the same possessive desire as ever. "And I, yours."

*

When the call with Vader was over, Tarkin scrolled through his datapad a little longer. There were still about twenty minutes left before he had to get up and attend to his next duty.

With a small sigh of amused resignation, he switched to his work line and keyed in Thalassa's number.  She picked up almost immediately, and Tarkin found himself staring into the holographic eyes of his own ex-wife.

They'd both aged a bit in the years since the divorce, but she looked more or less the same as he remembered. Her iron-gray hair was pulled into a precarious shape atop her head. She wore a severe black dress with a string of pearls at her throat, and there was a hard look in her eyes as she took him in.

"Wilhuff," she said coldly in greeting.

"Thalassa," he acknowledged in the same tone.

"It took you long enough returning my calls."

Many people would have found Thalassa's attitude insufferable. Tarkin had used to enjoy it. He was fond of people who could hold their own. He had never been in love with her; it had been an arranged marriage, more about the benefits to both families than to the individuals involved. But she had admired him and she had amused him, and it hadn't been an unpleasant arrangement. Not at first.

"Dear me," he answered dryly. "It's almost as if an Emperor has better things to do. What was it that you were calling to complain about?"

He knew what she would say before she said it. It was almost word-for-word the same thing she'd said in her other messages. "Wilhuff, you've been Emperor for over a month and I have received _no_ official communications. No acknowledgement whatsoever of me or of your own children as members of the Imperial family. No adjustment to my spousal support, either, which I _will_ be taking to court, believe me-"

"I doubt you'd win. It seems that, by some oversight, there was no provision in the separation agreement for adjustments in the case that one of us should happen to become Emperor."

An Emperor's salary was not actually much higher than a Grand Moff's. It was just that the discretionary portion of the income was higher, because an Emperor's living expenses were almost all paid by the state. In any case, the amount that Tarkin currently sent to Thalassa each month didn't trouble him. He had an accountant take care of that process so he didn't have to look at the number.

"After all these years," Thalassa fumed, "I can't imagine why you still think you're funny. You _must_ stop using your work as an excuse not to attend to the most basic of other obligations. It doesn't surprise me at all that you ended up playing house with Darth Vader and that little red-haired slut. I fully believe that the only people you can pay sustained attention to are the ones you do your work with. Nothing else is real to you, is it, Wilhuff?"

Tarkin studied his nails. "I did miss trading insults with you, my dear, but I'm on a tight schedule. What did you actually want?"

"I told you already. Formal recognition as a member of the Imperial family."

"You're the one who decided we weren't a family anymore. You can't take that back just because there's something in it for you now."

Thalassa had been the one to file for separation, and then for divorce. Their relationship had been shaky by that point, and he'd _technically_ already had Natasi, but Tarkin had thought things were more or less holding together. He had liked having a wife and children to return to sometimes. He'd fought to stop her from leaving, and he had realized too late that the ruthless tactics used to win a military campaign were not suited to this purpose. He'd won a number of battles, with regards to the relative standing of both families when the dust settled, but by doing so he'd driven her and the children even further away, and thus lost the war.

Vader's reunion with Luke had given him the wistful scrap of an idea. There was a faint chance that the war wasn't over.

"I ended the marriage," said Thalassa primly, "after you'd left it at the bottom of a drawer for decades and then pissed all over it. That was a mercy kill. But you can't deny that l am still the mother of your children."

Tarkin smiled very slightly. He'd known she would use that _mother of your children_ line; she'd used it in several of the other messages. There had been a time, shortly after the divorce, when Thalassa wouldn't directly acknowledge him as a father at all. Some things did change.

"That's an excellent point," he said. "Marriages can be dissolved, after all, but children can't. In that case, I have something for you. There will be a private dinner at the Imperial Palace in three days' time. If Garoche and Rivoche can bring themselves to endure my presence for the evening, then they're invited, and they shall be received as an Imperial Prince and Princess. Only the two of them, no plus-ones. There's been a recent addition to the family on Vader's side, and it's time everyone with an _existing_ relation became acquainted with each other, as well as getting on the same page about titles and protocol."

Thalassa opened her mouth and stammered. She'd never liked being caught in his little traps, which only made it more amusing to do. "You can't just cut me out of something like-"

"Of course I can; it's a private function. An aide will be in touch later today with the details. That will be all, Thalassa. Good day."

He cut the comm, smiling to himself. Thalassa wouldn't be able to resist this bait. She'd fume that she wasn't invited, but she'd encourage the children to attend regardless. Being the mother of an Imperial Prince and Princess was an honor in itself, one beyond anything she'd dreamed when they'd first been married. And no doubt the wheels in her head were already turning - if she got a foot in the door this way now, perhaps she could bargain further at some later date.

Garoche and Rivoche were adults, of course, with their own opinions on the matter. Tarkin didn't know precisely what Thalassa had said, all those years ago, to alienate them from him, or how their feelings had evolved in the meantime. It might be that even the lure of royal titles did not sway them. They might snub the invitation and leave him and Luke and Vader alone. If so, Tarkin would be no worse off than he'd been before.

But if they did attend, that would have several benefits. He'd get to see them again, which was more tempting than he wanted to admit. He'd be able to display the Imperial Palace in its most splendid light, making it as tempting as he could both for them and for Luke. Meanwhile Luke would meet the two of them, and would see that there was an actual family here for him to join, and not merely a pair of old madmen or whatever it was that the Rebel Alliance called him and Vader these days.

He'd deliberately let slip the bit about there being a new addition to Vader's family. Knowing Thalassa's appetite for gossip, she'd tell everyone she knew. Luke's identity wouldn't be outed, but some vague, distorted word would build. It would become that much easier to present Luke publicly as an Imperial Prince, a bit later, and that much harder for him to return to the Rebels without being viewed as somehow compromised.

These things alone wouldn't change the mind of an opponent as fearsome as Luke, but as he'd told Vader, Luke required a long game.

Tarkin ought not to be enjoying himself. He was planning what would undoubtely be an awkward dinner for himself, his deeply mentally-ill lover whom he'd just relieved of command, a Rebel stepson-slash-prisoner who most likely still wanted to kill them both, and a pair of people who hadn't seen fit to speak to him in over half a decade. Most people would not enjoy this. But Tarkin's instincts had always pulled him in this direction. To charge directly for the greatest threat instead of mincing around it. To approach the things he feared, rather than flee, and ensure that they knew he was stronger. He liked to pull his enemies close and stare them down - at dinner, if necessary, or in any other setting - until they crumpled.

That very instinct was what had endeared him and Vader to each other, back when they first met. It was fitting that it would also rear its head, in a different way, when faced with the problem of Vader's son.

And Tarkin, Force help him, was looking forward to the challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly if you spent most of this chapter going "TARKIN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING" then that's more or less expected. I love him, though.
> 
> Comments are love <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luke hangs out with his dad in the garage and asks all kinds of difficult questions, invitations are accepted and architectural plans rejected, a minor power struggle happens involving boots, and Vader makes certain confessions to M4 that he has previously avoided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the part where Vader tells M4 why he needs therapy, so there'll be a few more of those Mentions of Suicide, and a really tiny mention of slavery - honestly I'm starting to think that "slavery" is right up there with "suicide" and "abuse" (and "canon war crimes") on the list of Things That Are Just Going To Get Mentioned A Lot Here, Sorry - you can expect it to briefly come up in various future chapters even if I don't say anything, but I'll warn for more detailed discussions.
> 
> Shout-out to SpookySpaghetties for taking a look at the draft of Vader and M4's scene. The vast majority of my fic is gleefully unbeta'd, but it was nice to have a quick reality check about the therapy part of this, specifically.

Vader's dreams had been less terrible than usual, and they had not involved his ghost - but that was not to say that they had been pleasant.

He'd dreamed of Padmé's body lying on the ashy ground. A tiny Luke had crept out of her - not in the usual way of birth, but straight through the skin of her belly, like a baby bird cracking its egg. He had not been a baby, but some indeterminate childhood age, cherubic and blond-haired, incongruous in the middle of all that lava. He had smiled.

"You're going where I can't follow," he'd said.

Vader had turned his head, and then he was looking at Obi-Wan - not Obi-Wan the way he'd looked on the Death Star, but Obi-Wan's younger self, his auburn beard perfectly trimmed and his eyes full of terrible grief.

"I didn't turn her against you," said Obi-Wan. "You did that yourself."

Vader had woken up with a jolt, and for an instant, he'd thought he sensed Obi-Wan _here._ In his fortress. But the feeling had vanished quickly, and the servant he'd ordered up to investigate had come back empty-handed. Luke had been having bad dreams, too. Vader had sensed that, or he'd gotten confused and sensed the remnants of his own dream. Vader _had_ been confused lately. But Obi-Wan was dead. There were no ghosts.

He had fallen asleep again, this time more peacefully. He had woken up blearily just in time for the call with Tarkin, and by the time that ended, Luke was already at breakfast. Vader could dimly feel the fortress's other inhabitants congregating in the dining hall, all of them confused and embarrassed to meet each other. Luke's mind was particularly bright and present in the Force, and Vader didn't know if that was just because of how strong he was, or if a mental bond was beginning to form. Vader's body ached worse than usual, but he could feel that Luke needed him to be there. He was disoriented and upset by his new surroundings, and while he didn't enjoy Vader's presence, everything made even less sense without him.

So he called in M4 and began to grudgingly put on his suit.

"You're sure you don't want some extra rest?" said M4 as she began to transfer all the bits of his life support from the tank back to the suit's systems. Vader had built M4 specifically to work with him and his suit. He had many medical needs, but the most annoying one was the need to spend an hour being helped into his suit every morning and an hour having it taken it back off. Human servants and mass-produced droids were intolerable for that work. M4 knew how to do it in a way he could bear. "Or some extra meds? I don't know what happened on yesterday's mission, because you still won't tell me, but all your life sign readings say you're pretty exhausted right now. Your, uh, injuries from the coup are still only like eighty percent healed."

"I will do nothing strenuous," Vader promised. "But I need to take care of my son."

"Uh huh," said M4, in the tone of someone who knew perfectly well how often Vader broke that kind of promise, and who also knew it wouldn't help to argue. "Okay. Well, I'm gonna work a couple of extra bacta patches in here today. But I don't have grounds to make you stay in there. I get it, you know. You had a big day, you found out you had a kid, and now he's at your house and you want to spend time with him. Caring for offspring is a human biological need. Just take it easy while you do it, okay? If Luke needs something, he's got the servants and me. It doesn't have to be all on you."

"Nothing is on me," said Vader crossly. He could have done all the work of fatherhood, so long as he had time and medical help, but Obi-Wan had stolen that from him. Now Tarkin had taken his Imperial authority as well. If not for Luke's return, he would have had nothing to do today at all. Nor the next day. Or the next...

And then he remembered the other part of what Tarkin had decided.

"What?" said M4, seeing his expression change.

It had been one thing to agree to it over a long-distance call. It had been unpleasant to think about, but he could resign himself as he'd resigned himself to so many other unpleasant things. Now he had to say it, of his own volition, directly to her.

"I have been instructed," he said, "to ask you for psychological therapy."

"Hallelujah, Lord Vader. About time," said M4, and then she went still, a disconnected oxygen tube dangling in her hand. "Wait, what do you mean, _instructed?_ "

"By Tarkin," said Vader. He was tense all over. He did not want to have to explain this.

"Um. Okay." She started moving again, more cautiously than before, putting the tube into its proper place. "He knows that's not his call, right?"

"It is his call. There is a regulation as to mental and physical fitness for command. I am no longer exempt."

"Yeah, I know that regulation. It's never applied to Sith Lords before. I mean, it doesn't specifically _say_ that it doesn't apply, but in practice-" She paused, chewing that over. "He can't just make you stop being Emperor. _You_ made _him_ Emperor. He knows that, right?"

Vader knew why M4 was protesting, and she was not completely wrong. He had known all along, ever since he asked Tarkin to help him overthrow Palpatine, that this was how it might go. Tarkin craved power even more than he craved love, and it must be a bright and shining image in his head, the idea of removing Vader from the picture and ruling absolutely, alone. He might not even be able to tell the difference between his different motives - a real fear for Vader, a real need to minimize the damage Vader did, and the equally real ambitions that lay beside it. Tarkin could rationalize as well as anyone.

That didn't mean Vader didn't need to be removed. Maybe he'd needed it all along, and Tarkin had needed to be pushed this far before giving in and admitting it. And M4 wasn't helping matters by questioning his motives. It had already become a necessary thing regardless of anyone's motives. Questioning was pointless.

"I have not stopped being Emperor. But I am temporarily relieved of the ability to set policy or give military orders, until such time as you certify that I can safely handle that responsibility."

"Me specifically?"

"You specifically."

M4 set the oxygen tube down with a clunk. "Well, then, let me just go and certify that right _now,_ Lord Vader, because this is _ridiculous._ I know you've got a bunch of mental illnesses, and you had that little breakdown a couple weeks ago, but he didn't remove you from power _then,_ and you've been handling military command just fine. The only other big change is you don't have Lord Sidious telling you what to do anymore. And the _least helpful_ thing that your boyfriend could _possibly_ do while you get used to living without a master is to step into that role himself and start telling you what you can and can't-"

"I attempted to kill myself yesterday," Vader snapped.

He hadn't meant to blurt it out so baldly, or maybe at all, but letting M4 continue was even worse.

"Oh," she said, after a few seconds' pause. "Okay."

Now that he'd stated it, he needed to keep going. To explain enough to make her understand. "I have felt that way ever since I killed my master. And I have been seeing things. When I had my _little breakdown,_ as you call it, I was convinced there was a ghost attacking me. It was not real. I know that now."

"Uh huh," said M4, in a tone of increasing alarm.

He had not wanted to be spoken to in this tone. Not by her. But there was nothing else to do now but push through. "Exegol made me think that it was the only way to save everyone from the ghost. It could not possess me and hurt them if I was not there."

"Okay," said M4 in that same tone. He wanted to shove her across the room. "This is relevant medical information, Lord Vader. It would have been super helpful if you'd told me last night. You know, just a couple of words edgewise in between talking about Luke-"

"You said it was up to me what to tell you," said Vader. "I did not want to tell you. But I told Tarkin. Do you understand his choices now?"

M4 paused again before answering, and moved another couple of tubes into the proper places. Vader suspected that this was her droid equivalent of taking a deep breath.

"I mean, yeah, this makes a _little_ more sense now." She moved back to the tank and started working on it again. They were still on the part of the process where Vader was hanging there, rather than lying on the padded table where they did the bulk of the medical work. "Involuntary treatment is a thing sometimes. But there are a _lot_ of reasons why I don't want to do that with you. First of all, you're Darth Vader. Nobody's going to be able to keep you in a treatment program that you don't want to do. And second of all, you're so triggery about people trying to control you and mess with your mind already, it'd only make things worse. There are some other reasons, but those are the main two."

"Tarkin informed me that it was voluntary," said Vader, not bothering to keep the irony out of his voice. Voluntary, but Tarkin would already be talking to palace officials and to the Joint Chiefs, informing them of the situation. Voluntary, but if Vader changed his mind, he could not picture getting out of it again, not without one of the longest and angriest arguments he and Tarkin had ever had. Voluntary, but if he hadn't gone along with it, he would have risked alienating the only man in the galaxy who loved him.

_I didn't turn her against you. You did that yourself._

Vader was well accustomed to things that were voluntary that way.

"Okay," said M4. She had fully prepared him for transfer out of his tank; she pulled a lever, and the bacta began to drain out around him, gurgling as it went. Vader braced himself with what was left of his arms; this process left him suspended for several seconds before it was possible to lower him onto the table, held in the air by the straps that stabilized him when the tank was full of fluid, and it could be mildly uncomfortable. He could still hear M4's voice through the small transmitter attached to his skull. "I want to ask you this, though, really carefully. Forget about Tarkin for a second. Is this something _you_ want?"

"I will do what is necessary," Vader grit out.

He knew what she was doing. It was the same thing Tarkin had often used to do, before Tarkin had learned how it triggered him. She was worried that he hadn't chosen this of his own free will, and now she was trying to walk him back, to give him a way out.

But Vader did not want therapy, and he already knew he had to do it anyway. Whether it was Tarkin's fault for pushing him into it, or a genuine life-and-death necessity, didn't matter; the result was the same. M4 asking him like this was no better than what Palpatine had so often done. Dangling some unpleasant duty in front of Vader, asking if he was sure he was strong enough, making him agree to it again and again.

She must have known that deep down, because she didn't ask again. She just electronically sighed as the last of the bacta guttered away below the stumps of Vader's thighs.

"Okay," she said. "Let's start this afternoon."

*

Neap left, as promised, when breakfast was over, and Piett seemed eager to retire to his quarters and avoid the drama. So Luke spent a few minutes wandering alone. There wasn't far to wander. The seventh floor had only two rooms - that dining hall and a meeting room at its side. The eighth floor was one big room with nothing much in it, just a panoramic view of the same lava as every other room, and some tables stacked up at its edges.

Luke felt lost. He didn't know what Vader expected him to do here. Maybe Vader had wanted him to waltz in like a big-shot Imperial and start giving orders. But there was nobody much to give orders to, except for the servants, and Luke would rather not bother them when he didn't have to. They'd stayed up all night getting emergency clothes and breakfast. He hoped they were taking a nap now.

He knew the mission he'd given himself. Get to know Vader and gather information for the Rebels. Figure out why Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side. Except that Luke's father wasn't even _here,_ and there wasn't much information on these upper floors without him.

Not that anything was actually keeping him on the upper floors. The words _Rebel prisoner_ seemed to be lost on Vader. Luke didn't see any guards or even any droids tailing him. Maybe he'd sneak down and see what was on those other, forbidden floors.

He was just about working up the nerve to do that when the lift opened, and Vader stepped out to greet him.

"Good morning, my son," said Vader in his strange deep voice.

Luke had a strange feeling looking at him, almost like vertigo. He'd felt lost wandering Vader's fortress without Vader here. But having Vader here brought back echoes of all the shocks of yesterday. And this time he couldn't deny it or doubt it. This was not just some horrible misunderstanding: Ben had confirmed it. Darth Vader was Luke's father.

Or - no. Anakin Skywalker was Luke's father. Anakin had _turned into_ Darth Vader somehow, for reasons nobody really understood. And now, for equally mysterious reasons, Ben thought he might be changing again.

Luke needed to find out why.

"Good morning," he said politely, "father."

Vader nodded to him. "There is no doubt in your mind, as there was last night. You have accepted the truth."

Luke nodded back. "I've accepted that you're my father. That you're Anakin Skywalker."

"That is no longer my name." Vader looked lower, distracted. "Did the servants not provide you with footwear?"

"No, they gave me all the clothes I could want. _You_ didn't, but they did. I just..." Luke glanced at his stocking feet. The jackboots he'd been given weren't all that different from his Rebel boots, just taller and shinier. If he hadn't liked them, he could have put his Rebel boots back on. He didn't know how to explain why the lack of boots felt important to him. He felt a need to resist this place in small, symbolic ways. Even though it didn't really change anything. Even though he'd eaten Vader's food.

"You will need proper footwear where we are going," Vader scolded. "I will not have you stepping on a stray washer or screw. This way."

He motioned to the lift, and Luke followed reluctantly. Just two days. He could do this for two days, and then he could see his friends again. "Where are we going?"

"My workshop." The lift doors closed behind them and they were uncomfortably closed in again, Vader's broad chestplate only inches from Luke's face. "You enjoy machines, do you not?"

Luke had a sudden mental image of Vader in some horrible cave, creating deadly weapons and torture devices. "Um, what kind of machines?"

"Droids," said Vader, and the lift doors opened again; the trip from the eighth floor to the sixth was mercifully brief. "Vehicles. Occasionally other small projects."

"Yeah, I like those." Luke let himself be herded back towards the door of his guest room. "So why did you change your name?"

The door opened, and Vader gestured for Luke to go in and put his boots on. Luke stepped into the guest room. Vader loomed at him from the other side of the doorway, arms crossed, supervising. "All Sith are given a new name when they turn to the Dark Side."

Luke looked critically at his closet. A servant had come by while he was at breakfast and hung all the clothes up neatly. His Rebel jacket was still hanging there too, but most of the other clothes he'd worn on his way here were out of sight; probably to the laundry. On the closet floor, both pairs of boots were neatly lined up, the Imperial jackboots and the Rebel ones. "What's a Sith?"

"Put your boots on."

Luke looked at Vader, then at the boots. He picked his Rebel boots out of the closet and maintained defiant eye contact with Vader as he slipped them both on.

"Good," said Vader. Luke wondered if he even knew which pair was which. "Now, this way." Luke followed him back to the lift, and Vader answered his earlier question before he could ask it again. "Obi-Wan truly taught you nothing. The Sith are a religion nearly as old as the Jedi. But their order is smaller. There are only two Sith Lords in the galaxy at a given time. And now, only one."

Luke furrowed his brow as the lift doors closed in on them again. He hadn't realized Vader's way of using the Force was a whole separate religion. He'd sort of figured that if a Jedi turned to the Dark Side, they were an evil Jedi. "You're the only Sith?"

"Yes. I am all that remains."

"What about Neap? She said you trained her-"

"The Inquisitors were not Sith. They served the Sith. There is a difference."

"So who was the other Sith?"

"That was the Emperor." The lift doors opened in the big anteroom on the first floor, and Vader strode out. Not to the entrance with its heavy portcullis, but towards a smaller door at the side.

"Emperor Palpatine?" Luke blinked as he followed Vader. He didn't think any of the Rebels had known this. "He used the Force?"

"Yes."

"Is that why you turned to the Dark Side?" If someone else had convinced Anakin to turn, someone powerful and belonging to a tradition as old as the Jedi, then that... didn't really explain _why_ he'd agreed, but it was at least the beginning of the story.

Vader rounded on him and shook his gloved finger disapprovingly. "You are not ready yet for that story."

"He was the only other Sith," Luke pressed. He felt like he was starting to put some of these pieces together. Not the whole story, but an edge of it, like the first promising corner of a jigsaw puzzle. "He must have been the one who turned you. And then like twenty years later you killed him. Because you didn't like him." He remembered Vader flippantly saying that in answer to his questions on the shuttle, and he knew it could not be the whole story, but he suspected it wasn't a lie. "Does that mean you don't want to be a Sith anymore?"

"That is not what it means," Vader said, "when a Sith apprentice kills their master."

The word _master_ hit Luke, in the muggy air, like a shock of cold water.

"He was your _master?"_ Luke repeated, appalled. On Tatooine, that word meant only one thing. But everyone had told him that, when Anakin was little, he'd been _freed-_

"That word means many things," Vader replied. He opened the door with a hiss and stepped through into a large, cluttered room. "The Jedi used it, too. All the most accomplished Jedi wished for the rank of Master. You have not been offworld long, my son. Not everything in the galaxy is about Tatooine."

"More like _nothing_ in the galaxy is about Tatooine," Luke groused, following him. He'd never quite gotten used to the bewildering number of planets in the galaxy, the ways the Rebels had to strategize thinking of all of them at once - which mostly meant thinking only about the most urgent ones. Life on Tatooine was shitty, but a stable kind of shitty, not an immediate threat to the Rebels nor a promising place for insurrection. "Nobody cares about Tat-"

He stopped, his mouth dropping open, as he took in the room before him.

The rest of the fortress had been dark and grand, and this room looked like it might have been designed the same way, at first. But its contents weren't the same at all. The rest of the fortress had been polished within an inch of its life, but this room was cluttered with tools and with half-finished projects: little maintenance-looking droids, powered down and halfway through an upgrade. Engines that looked like they belonged in a speeder - the _cool_ kind of speeder, sleek and fast. Some tools lay on shelves or hung at the walls, but others were left by one project or another, as if Vader had laid them down there when he got distracted and wandered off. Some piles of parts below the work tables had overflowed nearly all the way to the floor. This wasn't the room of an overlord, reigning from on high, ordering his servants to clean up his mess. This was a human room. This was a room someone _lived_ in.

"Woah," said Luke.

"Do you like it?" said Vader, turning to him.

"This is cool," Luke said. He walked up to the table with the biggest project, an engine taking up the whole space and poking out over the table's sides. "Is that a sublight ion engine? It doesn't look like the ones on an X-wing, but the reactor casing and the plasma injectors-"

"That is a prototype TIE fighter's engine," said Vader. "It is not the one from my personal fighter; it is a copy with which I can experiment. Do not touch that one. You may touch the smaller projects if you wish."

Luke backed away from the TIE fighter. The next table had a droid of a type unfamiliar to him. A couple of its manipulating limbs had broken somehow. Luke reached out a hesitant hand, remembering his earlier mental image of Vader and M4 fixing each other. "What's this guy for?"

"This is one of my maintenance droids. It is modified from a model used in Mustafar's mining operations. They work on the fortress's moving parts - the doors, the power generation, the structures that hold it safely above the lava, as well as certain cleaning and supply tasks."

Luke's fingertips met the droid's outside, a strange, thick, rough texture. "I've never seen a casing like this. What's it made of?"

"Carbonite. It helps them to endure the heat. The droids used directly for mining have a more advanced version; for short periods, they can pick lava up and handle it directly."

Luke moved around the table, examining the droid closely. "Emfour told me you built her."

Vader sounded surprised. "You have met Emfour?"

"Yeah, she came by this morning to check me over. Apparently I'm stressed and sleep-deprived but otherwise in perfect health."

"She would want to know you, of course. It is relevant to her work." Vader paced through the room, coming to rest near the TIE engine. "Have you ever fixed droids?"

"Sure. Just repairs, though. I never built one."

"Would you like to work together?"

Luke was surprised, but honestly that sounded like a good way to interact with Vader. Prolonged enough to get the information that he needed. But less awkward than sitting with him in the shuttle or at that breakfast table. "Sure. If you trust me with your stuff..."

"With some of it." Vader gestured to the droid. "Try repairing that. It is a simple transverse breakage of the arm; that segment merely needs to be replaced. I will work on the ion engine."

Luke carefully looked the broken limb over. It did look like a simple breakage; something had smashed against the fragile manipulating arm and it had snapped. Most of the necessary replacement materials were already assembled: hydraulic tubes, wires, connectors, insulation, even more carbonite components that looked like they could be fitted together into a new casing, along with the tools to do so.

"I have two pieces of news for you," said Vader, who was facing away from Luke now, beginning to poke around in the TIE engine's injectors. "A choice to make, and an invitation."

Luke raised an eyebrow. He picked up a small wrench and started working at the droid's arm, carefully undoing the fastenings that held the broken parts in place. "So the invitation's not a choice, huh?"

"That is not what I meant," said Vader. He picked up a datapad that had been hanging at his belt. Several holograms sprang up from its surface: some kind of architectural design, big rooms of a strange unknown type set into a blurry larger structure. Each version had more or less the same set of rooms, but each arranged them differently, and the details changed. "These are plans for my new quarters at the Imperial Palace."

Luke squinted at the holograms, trying to make sense of them. "What, you didn't have quarters at the palace before?"

He couldn't see a bedroom in any of the holograms, or a fresher or anything else sensible. Come to think of it, if Vader was an Emperor, why did he live all the way out here with hardly any other people? Something was weird about this.

"Before I was Emperor," Vader explained, "I stayed at the palace only rarely. There was no need to build full chambers for my medical needs. But of course, that has changed. The Chief Imperial Architect, Jora Leffe, created these plans, showing how rooms like the ones in this fortress could be fit into unused portions of the palace structure. But that was before I had a son, of course. They will have to be redone" He switched off the datapad and reattached it to his belt, next to the lightsabers. "As an Imperial Prince, your role is merely ceremonial; you cannot inherit the throne. But you are as entitled to live at the palace as I am. What rooms will you require?"

Luke gaped. He didn't even know where to start with that question.

"I... don't know," he stammered. "Give me a couple days to think about it, okay?"

"As you wish," said Vader, turning back to the TIE engine to adjust something.

Luke took a deep breath and forced himself to focus on the droid, carefully unscrewing the joint that held the damaged components in place. He did not want to live in the Imperial Palace. It unnerved him how Vader was planning all this out, like Luke was going to live with him forever. Like he'd just assumed that Luke would want to do that.

Or like he didn't care if Luke wanted it or not.

There was something weird in Vader's way of going about this. Asking for Luke's opinion in some ways, wanting to make him happy in some ways, completely steamrolling over his wishes in others.

"As for the invitation," said Vader as he adjusted something in the plasma injectors. "Emperor Tarkin wishes to meet you. In three days time, we will attend dinner and a tour of the palace."

Luke gave an especially hard twist to the droid's joint. It came apart into its consistuent pieces with a clatter.

He had been trying not to think about Emperor Tarkin. Luke had never met Tarkin, but he'd always hated him. Before the coup, Tarkin had been in charge of the whole Outer Rim, and Luke had constantly seen him on the Holonet news, boasting about the technological and military advances he took credit for, new hyperlanes, reductions in piracy, boosts to the economy. None of those things had ever made a difference on Tatooine. They'd mostly lined the pockets of a few rich people, leaving people like Luke's family in the same straits as before - or sometimes even worse.

Nobody on Tatooine had liked Grand Moff Tarkin. And the Rebels hated him even more. To the Rebels he was a powerful military enemy, and his tactics were always dirty and cruel.

And then, of course, there was Alderaan.

Dark Side or not, Luke didn't understand how his father could be in love with a man like that.

"You do not want to go," said Vader. "But it will be better when you do. You and Emperor Tarkin and I are family now, and you should know each other. None of the three of us will ever do harm to the others again. I have promised I will see to that."

"Yeah, great," said Luke, picking the pieces of the droid back up. He didn't think that promise would extend to Tarkin hurting all of Luke's other friends.

Just two days. Just two days of this and then he could make an escape. If that went well then he wouldn't have to meet Emperor Tarkin at all. If he couldn't find a way to escape in two days then he'd go to the Imperial Palace in three. It wouldn't kill him, no matter how much he hated it. If anything, the Imperial Palace would be easier to escape from. Coruscant was a whole planet with nothing but city, right? He could lose a pursuer in the city's crowds more easily than on an endless lava plain.

Luke carefully set a new group of wires into place around the central joint of the droid's arm. He tried to concentrate, but he was rattled. Vader and his fortress, and the way the air hurt here, were already so much to deal with. He didn't want to have to think about Emperor Tarkin and whatever else awaited him in the Imperial Palace, on top of that.

But now he couldn't stop thinking about it.

"What's Emperor Tarkin like?" Luke asked. He picked up a solder pen, flicked it on, and started to carefully fuse the wires into place.

"He is cold, but he holds to his principles," said Vader. There were various clanking noises from the TIE engine. "He is a ruthless warrior and a strong leader. He is impossible to intimidate, and I have tried. He is very clever. He understands how to turn people from their more destructive impulses to broader goals."

Luke made a face. Emperor Tarkin had blown up a whole planet out of spite. He didn't want to know what Tarkin classified as a _destructive impulse._

He didn't want to know why Vader thought that kind of ruthlessness was a good thing. He didn't want to imagine that this was what his father found attractive.

Out of some destructive impulse of his own, he blurted, "Was my mother like that?"

The sounds from the TIE fighter abruptly stopped.

Luke didn't know a thing about his mother. His aunt and uncle had told him a little bit about Anakin and Grandma Shmi, even if it wasn't much, even if half of it was lies. But he had nothing about his mother, not even her name. To hear Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru tell it, Anakin had flown off into the galaxy and then one day a baby Luke had just plopped down on their doorstep, along with the news of Anakin's death. For all he'd known, his mother might have been a cloning vat.

But Ben had known her. Ben had been there when she died.

And clearly - by definition - Vader had known her, too.

"No, Luke," Vader said, tightly, after a pause. "Your mother was a queen."

"A queen?" he repeated, bewildered. That was not what he'd expected.

"Yes. The Queen of Naboo." There was something labored about the way Vader said the words, and Luke could guess that he was fighting a strong emotion, struggling to keep control enough to speak. "So you are a prince twice over, my son."

"Naboo," said Luke, trying out the word. He wasn't sure, for a moment, if he'd ever heard of it before. What kind of planet was it? What part of the galaxy was it in? He racked his brains, but from all of his schooling and all of the Rebel meetings he'd sat in on, he could only remember only one thing. "Wait, that's the planet Emperor Palpatine was from."

"She was not responsible for him." Vader had not made a single movement since this topic came up. Only the sound of his breath continued, even, in and out. "You would have liked her. She was warm, not cold. She held all the color and beauty of the world on her person. She disagreed with Tarkin on almost every issue imaginable. But she too was a strong, principled leader. She was impossible to argue with. She was a clever diplomat. She saw what was worth saving in everyone."

Luke was sure the emotion he heard in his father's voice was grief. It was a grief so thick he could almost feel it, the way he felt the background anguish in Mustafar's air. But this was different from the feeling of the air. It seemed to radiate like heat from Vader's own suited bod. It was a pain like the grief Luke felt for his aunt and uncle and Ben Kenobi and Biggs, but even worse, and somehow turned in on itself - a grief laced with anger and _guilt_ -

Guilt?

He pulled back. It _was_ Darth Vader's grief he was feeling. That made sense - Jedi were supposed to read minds, weren't they? The Force was strong here. The Dark Side of the Force was especially strong, and there was something about this grief in particular that felt dark.

He wondered what would happen if he tried to reach out and touch it.

"What happened to her?" said Luke, dreading the answer. He already knew Vader wasn't sure. He'd thought Luke and his mother were both dead until yesterday. But he had cared about Luke's mother, and something had happened to separate them. To stop Vader from being there when Luke was born. To make her death plausible enough that he'd believed it without seeing it for himself.

There was a strange snapping sound.

"That is-" Vader said, and then he broke off, like he couldn't even force himself to make words anymore.

Luke felt a chill. He knew what kind of person Darth Vader was, what violence he was capable of. He'd been peppering him with questions anyway, pushing his buttons, not because he'd forgotten the risk but because he needed to know and it seemed worth it.

He wondered if it was still going to feel worth it a minute from now.

"That," Vader continued at last, in a flatter tone, "is a part of the other story. The one you are not yet ready to hear."

Luke turned to look at him. In Vader's clenched, gloved hand, some small component of the TIE engine had snapped in two.

Luke looked at the broken metal in Vader's hand. He looked up into Vader's blank, black mask.

Vader looked back at him, meeting his gaze, for a long second.

"I have an appointment," Vader said abruptly, turning on his heel. "Finish with the droid, then return to your room."

He strode out without waiting for a reply. The broken ship parts clattered to the messy floor. Luke stood there, frozen and disturbed.

_He's a real twisted garbage heap of a human,_ Luke remembered Neap saying. _But he's not what you think._

Darth Vader was a merciless killer. He'd been something else once, but he'd turned to the Dark Side, and he'd stayed this way for nineteen years. He couldn't have killed Luke's mother - if he'd done that, he would have known what had happened to her - but he was the kind of man who saw nothing wrong with kidnapping his own son and keeping him prisoner. He was the kind of man who could look at the perpetrator of a whole planetary genocide and call him _principled._ Whatever he might once have been, Darth Vader was evil now.

So how come the first thing Luke had felt in his father's mind, with the power of the Force itself, was _remorse?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darth Vader fumbles through his first therapy intake appointment; Luke makes an escape plan and then looks for trouble armed with nothing but a stick; Vader plans a Dark Side experiment; and Luke begins to suspect something rotten in Vader and Tarkin's relationship.

At the appointed time, Vader went to his quarters and sat down on a padded bench near the entrance.

His head was still spinning from the conversation with Luke. It was difficult for Vader to talk about Padmé. He had barely ever broached the subject even with Tarkin, though Tarkin was old enough to remember her. The fact that he was talking to Luke, who deserved to know, didn't make it _less_ difficult. If anything, Luke's attitude made it harder. Luke seemed to crave answers very deeply, and Vader wanted Luke around. But he was not sure he wanted Luke to understand him that way. Not yet. Not while Luke was still _judging_ him.

Vader was not sure how to fix that problem. Luke needed the Rebel ideals to be driven from his head in favor of something more pragmatic, something that would help him survive in this cutthroat Empire. But even if Vader and Tarkin accomplished that, what then? It wouldn't necessarily make him love his father. Vader was still a monster. Tarkin loved him anyway - one monster recognizing another. Tarkin believed there was an important place for monsters in the world. Would Luke grow to see it that way, when they'd suborned him as Tarkin planned? Could he love his father _as_ a monster?

Vader was not even sure if he wanted that to happen.

M4 trotted over and sat down on the bench opposite him. This felt very strange. M4 was usually working, busying her hands with some task vital for Vader's health, even as they talked about whatever was on his mind. He'd asked this morning why they couldn't be efficient and do therapy at the same time as putting on his suit or taking it off. She'd explained that therapy was different from just talking; it needed her full attention. Now she sat still, looking at nothing but him.

"Afternoon, Lord Vader," she said. "I bet you're here for therapy. Want to get started?"

Vader did not, but there was no help for it. At least they could get this first session over with. "Yes."

"Okay. So, this first appointment is just an intake appointment. I'm going to ask a few questions and-"

"An intake appointment?" Vader repeated, confused. "I have been your patient for fifteen years."

"It's against my programming not to call it that. Besides, we're starting a new course of treatment that's really unlike what we've done before. So we're gonna start slow, and we're going to pretend we don't know each other. Hi, Lord Vader! My name is M4-R3K, but you can call me Emfour."

"Hello," said Vader. He resented this. M4's familiarity was one of the few things that made this idea even a little bit tolerable. Adding a level of roleplay to it seemed obnoxious.

"I'm programmed to perform every kind of psychological therapy currently accredited by Imperial standards if need be," said M4. "I'm glad that you came in to see me today. Let me set down some ground rules first. Everything you tell me within the bounds of a therapy session is completely confidential. There are, uh, technically some exceptions - my programming requires me to report it if I think you're a danger to yourself or others, if there's abuse or neglect involving a child, or in a couple of other circumstances, but I'm actually going to circumvent that, okay? You're an Emperor; there's not exactly a law enforcement entity in the Empire any _higher_ than you, so if you tell me anything like that, I'll just report it right to you and we'll consider that requirement filled. I will _not_ tell Emperor Tarkin or anyone else what you tell me in these sessions, unless you specifically say I can, okay?"

"As you wish," said Vader, surprised. He hadn't even considered this. The thought of M4 reporting his darkest thoughts to Tarkin - or anyone else, for that matter - was a chilling one, and he was glad she'd thought to rule it out in advance.

M4 counted off regulations on her metal fingers. "You've been referred here because you were declared unfit for command on mental health grounds, so I want to talk about that. After our first couple of appointments, I'm going to give an official recommendation about your fitness for command. If you _are_ fit for command, then we throw out everything else Emperor Tarkin decided right away, but you can still keep coming to appointments if you find them helpful. Lots of people who are fit for command still need this kind of thing. If you're not fit for command, we'll revisit that every few months, and I'll let everyone know when you've made enough progress to have your Imperial duties back. Apart from that whole thing, I have zero other legal leverage over you as your therapist. I can't involuntarily commit you to inpatient care; I can't physically restrain you without your prior consent; I can't force you to take medication; I can't take any other legal rights away from you except for the right to set policy and give military commands as an Emperor. If I tell you to do something it's because I think it'll help, but I cannot punish you in any way for non-compliance. Okay?"

"Understood," said Vader, listening carefully.

"So, Lord Vader," said M4 cheerfully, "what brings you here today?"

She was mocking him, surely. "You know what brings me," he growled. "I tried to arrange my own death, and Emperor Tarkin was sufficiently distressed by this that he decided-"

M4 held up a hand. "Nope. Wrong answer."

"That is literally the reason I am here."

"That's true. Okay, let me rephrase." M4 tilted her head at him. Unlike any flesh-and-blood being, M4's emotions were opaque to Vader. He could read her expressions the way ordinary people read expressions, but he could never know what was truly going through her mind. He could not know if she was secretly mocking him, or secretly despairing, or secretly afraid of his rage. "Emperor Tarkin sent you here. But I actually give zero shits what Emperor Tarkin thinks. You're here with me, a therapist you have definitely never met before, asking me to help you with your brain stuff. So: what brain stuff do you think you need help with, Lord Vader? In your own opinion. Not Tarkin's."

Vader rose to leave. "Neither of our _opinions_ should matter. I thought you had tests to perform." She'd warned him that many of the tests would be subjective, that they would involve questionnaires or dialogues or other tasks more irritating than merely sitting still while blood was drawn; but she hadn't said it would be like _this._

M4 looked up at him, completely unfazed. "Yeah, I do. This is the first one. I have questionnaires we're gonna get to in a minute. But hearing your subjective opinion of what's wrong, before we get to any of that? That's important too. It tells me where we're starting from, what you're aware of, and how you think about yourself."

Vader reluctantly sat back down.

"No wrong answers," M4 encouraged him. "If you're only doing this to get reinstated as a real Emperor, say that. If you think that you don't really need therapy and the whole thing is poodo, then say that. You would _not_ be the first to say that, trust me."

She had warned him that there would be humiliations like these. He could endure them, so long as they were for a purpose. Vader racked his brains for a verbal phrase that would adequately convey what he thought of himself.

"I am a monster," he said at last, "and I am broken."

"Okay," said M4, as sunnily as before. "What do you mean by that?"

He stared at her. He was glad in retrospect that she had not agreed to do therapy while dressing him. At least she could not see his face. At least he had this little bit of privacy.

"I was made for only one thing," he said at last. "The Dark Side and death. Everything else about the man I was is dead. But now I cannot even do that. My..." He hesitated. He had not said this part aloud even to Tarkin. But it seemed like the crux of a great deal of the problem. "My knowledge of my monstrousness, what terrible things I have done and why, is beginning to hurt more. It is intolerable to be alive and feel that way, even for a Sith. I have been seeing things. And the people..." He almost said _the people who care_. But he meant Tarkin and Luke, and Luke _didn't_ care yet. "The people who ought to be mine are unhappy with me. I have disappointed them."

He half-expected her to object again, to tell him Tarkin's opinion shouldn't matter in therapy at all. But she just nodded. "Okay. And when did this start?"

"I became a monster nineteen years ago. The worsening remorse, and the seeing things, began when I killed my master. And the disappointments..." He hesitated.

Could he trust his senses? Tarkin had _always_ known Vader was erratic. He had loved Vader anyway, he'd had a higher opinion of Vader than most people's, but that scorn and amusement still played at his edges when Vader acted up. Tarkin used scorn to defend himself. It wouldn't have worked if he hadn't still respected Vader deep down, but Tarkin had always been aware of Vader's failings. And Tarkin did not like failure.

This morning's conversation had not been out of character. It had only been a stronger version of what Tarkin had always done when Vader scared him.

"I do not know," said Vader. "Yesterday, perhaps."

"Okay, cool," said M4. "Now, I wanted to ask about something - I've been told that therapy might be difficult for you in particular because the idea of people mucking around in your mind, like it's an engine or something, brings up bad memories. We don't have to talk about those memories yet, but is there anything you want me to avoid doing or saying while we get used to working together? Or anything in particular you want me to do so you'll be comfortable?"

Vader hesitated. He did not like how she said _I've been told._ As if he himself wasn't the one who'd told her. He also didn't really know this question's answer. He couldn't imagine any version of this process being comfortable.

When M4 had first suggested therapy, the day he woke up after killing his master, she'd explained that the first phase of trauma therapy was designed to help the patient feel safe. Vader had strongly objected to this. He would never be safe. He did not want her to make him believe in lies.

But he knew, now that he'd had time to think about it, that she hadn't really meant it that way. And Vader was as safe now as he could be. He had no enemies worth fearing now that Palpatine was gone. He had been a danger to himself recently, but he was not that now. And there was no ghost of Palpatine trying to harm him. He could think of ways to make sure that he remembered that, and that M4 did not behave like Palpatine.

"Do not lie to me," he said.

Giving that one instruction felt good. It reminded him a little of the way Tarkin talked about kink and limits - he and Vader liked kink, and everyone in kink was apparently supposed to have limits, even if they were an unstoppable, invulnerable magic cyborg. It had taken Vader some prompting to admit that he had any such thing. This appointment today was for healing, not sex, but M4 would still want him to state his limits.

He tried hard to think of more things that would be too much like Palpatine. "Do not test me," he said haltingly, "without informing me it is a test. Do not punish me for failure. Do not demand I believe or obey a thing without explaining why. And do not ask me the same question over and over."

"Sure, Lord Vader. That's a really good list, actually. I already told you I can't punish you, but I'm noting down all those other things. And if you think of more later, you can tell me then, too." M4 shifted slightly on her bench. "Now, last question before we get to the official intake questionnaires, this one's more of a hypothetical. Let's say, best-case scenario, you went through a whole therapeutic programme and it helped in all the ways you wanted it to. What would that look like? What are you hoping I can do for you here?"

"I would be Emperor again," Vader answered, and then paused; even he knew that this was not all of what he wanted. But the rest was hard to find words for. M4 sat patiently, knowing better than to interrupt. "I would not feel terrible all the time." No; that wasn't right. Nothing was ever going to make Vader not feel terrible all the time; no therapy could work miracles of that kind. But he could learn skills, surely. "I would know how to deal with the people I love without making them frightened or angry. I would know how to be a father." He paused again. There was another thing, but it took time for the words to come together, to make enough sense to be spoken. "I would know how to live with myself."

*

Luke couldn't believe Vader had left him alone. He was a Rebel prisoner. He was in the middle of one of the parts of the fortress that he supposedly wasn't allowed in without an escort. There were no guards anywhere. Luke was definitely not going to obediently go back and sit in his room.

It was time to do some exploring.

He put the droid gently back down and made a circuit of the workshop. Vader seemed to be the kind of tinkerer who started whatever projects caught his fancy, and who wandered away from them halfway through when something else caught his interest; that was not uncommon. Luke had been prone to a bit of that himself, back when he lived on Tatooine and had time to tinker. His aunt and uncle had always scolded him for it.

At the back of the workshop, there was a big door, big enough for stuff like the TIE engine to be carried right through. Luke pressed the button to open it, and it rumbled open.

The sight on the other side astonished him. There was a whole hangar here, open to the muggy volcanic air, big enough for five or six speeders. There was a TIE Advanced x1 prototype like the one Vader flew into battle. There were a handful of souped-up hot rods that looked optimized for flying through atmosphere, and there were a couple of more normal airspeeders - a pair of models with dimensions more like the speeder he'd sold back on Tatooine, family vehicles with cargo space, but much more expensive-looking, and painted red and black. A runway stuck out over the cliff, giving enough room for each of the vehicles to launch itself into the sky and leave this fortress behind.

He stared at the vehicles, hardly daring to breathe. He didn't want to cross the threshold, in case that set off some alarm. Could it be this easy? He could walk into the hangar and get in Vader's TIE fighter right now. He could fly up through the atmosphere and far away, changing it for another mode of transport and another until his trail was lost, until he could go back to his friends and tell them all he knew.

But he'd told himself he would stay here for two days. Just two, so that his friends had a decent amount of time to escape. It hadn't even been one full day yet.

He closed the door.

At least he knew _how_ to escape now. In just a day and a half longer, as soon as Vader was indisposed or had work to do, Luke could simply go to this room and leave through this door, and get in the fighter, and he'd be out of here. He wouldn't have to be here forever. He wouldn't even have to go to the Imperial Palace.

He took a long breath in and out, letting that sink in.

After that, he turned and wandered back into the entrance hall. Besides the workshop and the turbolift going up, there seemed to be another wing on the other side of this floor. The door to that wing was unlocked, too. It swished open into a short hallway, red and black and gloomy like everything else. There was a small door at the far end, and a bigger doorway in the side that caught Luke's attention immediately - a doorway that stood open, leading into a big, open room with lines on the floor like a training area.

Luke walked in, looking around.

This was definitely a training area. There was a wide open space where a person could move around. There were shelves at the edges with what looked like training materials. Big heavy nondescript objects, sticks and staffs and other practice weapons, but also a group of little round devices that made Luke smile in recognition. These were Jedi training remotes, like the one Ben had used with him so briefly on the _Millennium Falcon._ They'd float in the air and send random bolts at the nearest person - not strong enough to stun or injure, but strong enough to sting. The bolts could be deflected with a lightsaber, but that required moving inhumanly fast, depending on reflexes and mystical senses. Ben had put a helmet on Luke with the blast shield down, blinding him so he'd attend to those other senses. And he'd done it - he'd felt something; he'd let his hands move the way they instinctively wanted to move, and he'd caught the bolts. He'd done basically the same thing at Yavin, turning off his targeting computer, closing his eyes.

There were things that looked like blaster turrets set high in the walls. And there was a panel at the side of the room, glowing with a strange combination of letters - some aurebesh letters, spelling words in Basic that Luke could read, but also some in an utterly different, jagged alphabet. The Basic letters said _STANDBY_ and _CHOOSE ROUTINE,_ but the routine names and details were all illegible. Luke supposed that panel was for for guiding Vader through longer groups of exercises, like the calisthenics routines that all the Rebels did as part of their training.

He looked longingly at the training remotes, a foolish idea coming to his mind.

Ben had warned him not to let Vader train him, not to turn to the Dark Side, but training remotes weren't the Dark Side. Ben had used them too. Luke didn't have a lightsaber, but really a lightsaber was just an especially cool sword, right? If he could catch bolts with a laser sword, he could catch them with a good-sized stick. The motion would be the same.

Luke was _supposed_ to know how to use the Force. Everyone agreed about that, Vader and Ben and even the Rebels. He was strong with it; he just didn't have enough practice or training. And here on Mustafar, where the Force was strong, he was feeling it in new ways. He'd felt Vader's mind, and even if Vader was on the Dark Side, feeling people's emotions like that couldn't be _all_ dark.

Luke had always been good at that, actually, guessing how people might feel and how to put them at ease. Feeling Vader's mind had been a lot like that, only more vivid.

He picked up a stick that was just about lightsaber-sized, and then he picked up the training remote. He held his breath a little as he pressed the button to activate it. Its running lights switched on and it floated up out of his hands, beginning to circle him.

Luke closed his eyes and breathed deep. He tried to focus on his Force senses. There was the background pain of the Dark Side in the air, but he didn't need to focus on that; he could focus on what was immediately around him. Like the training remote and its position near him. Like when it would fire...

There was a chime and a hum like some machine turning on, bigger than the remote, and Luke hesitated a moment.

The training remote zapped him in the leg.

"Ow!" said Luke, hopping to the side. That had hurt a lot more than Ben's remote. His eyes snapped open.

A red ray shield had sprung into place across the doorway, blocking his exit. The panel at the side had also changed. It now said, in Basic, _ROUTINE - FREEFORM._

That wasn't good.

The remote zapped him again, and Luke yelped and spun towards it. It felt like one of Tatooine's biting flies, the ones that followed banthas around and drank blood through their thick hides. Luke was angry. He hadn't entered any commands into the panel, he'd only activated _one remote._ This wasn't fair.

Well, was he Luke Skywalker or wasn't he? He'd handled the Death Star. He could handle a stupid training remote.

The air seemed to hum around him in agreement.

Luke closed his eyes and focused. The next time the remote shot at him, he felt it a split second before it happened. He flicked his stick to the side and felt the bolts impact the wood with a sizzle. He did that again, and then a third time, and then he opened his eyes, distracted by his own delight. He was doing this! He was using the Force. He could take one of these things. It was no match for him-

As if in answer to his hubris, the remote shot him in the shoulder.

"Ow!" said Luke. _That_ had really stung. On impulse, he lashed out directly at the training remote. The stick connected with a very satisfying _thwack,_ and the remote spun through the air, trying clumsily to right its course. Luke hit it a couple more times. "Take _that,_ you stupid-"

The training remote's lights turned a deeper red and started to pulse. As if in answer, a dozen other remotes lit up on the shelves. They floated into the air, converging on Luke in a swarm.

"Oh, kriff," said Luke.

The remotes began to fire on him.

Luke tried furiously to deflect the bolts with his stick, but even though he caught a few, there were just too many. Painful bolts hit him everywhere, his arms, his chest, his legs. He dived for the panel at the side of the room, curling in on himself and gritting his teeth against the hail of bolts as he pawed through the panel's user interface. There were buttons, but he didn't know what they did. One of them had to end the freeform routine, turn off the remotes, and open the ray shield so he could get out of here, right? He'd settle for a single one of those three.

"Come on!" said Luke, punching buttons frantically. He managed to bring up a menu, but every option on the menu was written in that other, weird, jagged language. It was exactly like being in a swarm of angry biting flies; he could barely even think.

There was an enormous crash.

Darth Vader, as big and black and capey as Luke had ever seen him, stormed through the doorway where the ray shield had been a moment before. He had turned it off by jamming his lit lightsaber into the mechanism until it sparked, sputtered, and died. The training remotes buzzed around in confusion, some of them turning to this new target. He did not break his stride as he spun his saber, hardly even seeming to make an effort as he deflected six or seven bolts in a second.

"Emergency override," said Vader, his voice loud and booming. "End routine."

The panel chimed in acknowledgement. All the training remotes, in unison, shut off and clattered to the floor.

Luke uncurled a bit, panting, but if Vader felt any relief now that the threat was over, he showed no sign. Turning off his lightsaber, he pulled Luke up by his collar and dragged him away from the panel.

"What were you thinking?" Vader demanded.

"Hey!" Luke yelped, struggling. "Let go of me!" He flailed against Vader's grip, but it didn't do much good. Vader's hands were so strong, they didn't even feel human - it was like there was actual durasteel under those gloves.

Vader dragged him across the threshold, past the still-smoking mechanism for the ray shield and into the hall. "I told you that you are not to wander in these levels of the fortress unaccompanied. I told you to return to your room."

"Seriously," said Luke, trying to untangle himself. He didn't like Vader touching him. "I can walk by myself-"

He stumbled to keep up with Vader's long, quick strides as Vader pulled him through the door and into the fortress's antechamber. Only then did he let go of Luke's collar. Luke stumbled backwards, trying to regain a little personal space, but Vader grasped his wrist, pulling his arm up to inspect it. Angry red welts had risen there, and from the way his skin complained in other places, Luke suspected that he had welts like that all over himself now. He even felt a couple on his face.

"You are hurt," Vader said. His grip was careful this time, but there was genuine rage in his voice, as if any harm to Luke was a deadly insult to Vader himself. "You are fortunate that it was only the remotes. That room is where _I_ train for combat. Its full routines use live fire and other lethal effects. You could _easily_ have been killed. Do you understand?"

Luke swallowed, chastened, remembering those big gun turrets set high on the walls. "Yeah, fine. Okay."

"That training room is not the only dangerous room in this fortress," Vader lectured. "There are drop-offs and ledges. There are weapons. There are controlled medical substances and an entire geothermal power apparatus which directly harnesses the flow of lava." He shook Luke's arm as if it was some kind of baton he could wave to drive the point home. "When I give you an order, I give it for a _reason._ Do you understand?"

Luke set his jaw. Vader thought he couldn't even be trusted around medicines or ledges, like he was some kind of little kid. "Yes, father," he said through his teeth.

Vader released him, and he dropped down onto the nearest of the anteroom's low black couches, sulking. Vader let him alone for a few breaths. When he did speak, his voice was more controlled, closer to its usual. But Luke thought he could still feel the edges of that rage in the Force. "You have no weapon. Why did you activate the training remotes?"

"I had a stick," Luke protested, but Vader just looked at him. He squared his shoulders. "I don't know, I just... Everyone says I'm supposed to use the Force. And I can feel it here. But I don't know what it means or how to do anything with it. Ben had a training remote like that. I don't want to learn from you - you'd turn me to the Dark Side. But I thought maybe I could..."

The rage went out of Vader at that, replaced by something flatter. Sadness, irony, _regret_ \- Luke couldn't untangle it all. "You believed you could train yourself."

Luke remembered how Vader had refused to train him; how Neap had warned him that he didn't want to be trained the way she had. How both of them were stuck on the Dark Side anyway. He looked up at Vader. "Yeah. I did."

Vader looked Luke up and down for a long moment, and then he paced away. There was no window in the anteroom to look out of, so instead he ended up staring at a wall.

"I have wondered something for a long time," Vader said. "The manner by which Sith are trained is... unpleasant. It has been unclear to me how much of that is truly what the Dark Side requires, and how much is merely traditional for the Sith. The Jedi, on the Light Side, had their own traditions; they believed that only a child could be properly trained in their ways. Nine was too old. Yet you are nineteen and know nothing, and Obi-Wan still believed you could learn. I have wondered what would happen if a person sufficiently strong in the Force were to learn from neither order, and to make their own way. If you wish to train yourself, I will grant that wish."

Luke blinked, confused. "How?"

"The Force is strong here. Explore and test your powers as feels right to you. I will give you no lessons; I will pass on no doctrines; I will not provide routines for you to practice. I will not assign work. But I will answer any question you put to me. If you wish to put questions to another person, such as Neap, I will do what I can to arrange it. If you wish to do something active, such as using the training remotes, make your request and I will arrange for you to do it _safely._ And I will watch as you progress." There was a bitter humor in him now, and Luke couldn't tell if he was hearing it in Vader's tone, or sensing it directly. " _If_ you progress."

Luke drew back slightly as he considered that. He remembered Ben's warning. It wasn't just Vader that could turn him to the Dark Side. Mustafar itself could do that.

But Vader had told him to ask any questions, so he'd start there. "It feels like the air hurts here. Like it's upset. Is that the Dark Side?"

Vader began to pace again. He seemed tense, despite his promise. "Yes. The Dark Side is strong here."

"Because of the node thing? You said there was a Dark Side node under the fortress. But I don't know what that is."

"A Force node is a place of power at which the Force is especially strong. Not all are connected to one side of the Force. Some have other purposes. The one on this planet is strongly of the Dark."

Luke hugged himself, then grimaced as the welts on his arms and torso complained. "If you train in a place where the Dark Side is strong, can that turn you to the Dark Side all by itself? Without realizing?"

"I do not know." Vader's head tilted as he considered Luke. "Perhaps that is one of the things we will test. Now I will take you back up to your room. Emfour will treat your injuries, and I will see if I am permitted to requisition a guard for you."

Vader walked to the turbolift and Luke followed, confused. "Wait, what do you mean, _permitted?_ You're the Emperor."

The turbolift doors closed behind them, and there was a familiar lurching sensation as it moved up. Vader's voice deepened with displeasure. "I have been temporarily relieved of command. Until further notice, I am Emperor in name only."

"What? Why?" Luke exclaimed, surprising himself. He shouldn't be unhappy that his father didn't really rule the galaxy. His father _shouldn't_ rule the galaxy, obviously.

But it wasn't like Emperor Tarkin was any better!

"I have been told that I am mentally unstable." The door opened, and Vader gestured Luke through. "I must return to my appointment; I cut it short in order to rescue you. Stay here and await Emfour. One way or another, I will find a guard for you."

As soon as Luke was in the room, before he could even answer, the door slid shut behind him.

Luke slumped down on the edge of his bed.

"That did not go well," he said to the air.

*

It was not long before M4 hurried in. "Hi, Master Luke!" she said, as sunny as ever. "Somebody had an adventure today, huh?"

"I'm not _three,_ " Luke complained, but he was more amused than annoyed. His distress had subsided, once he was alone, into a general vaguely disgusted tiredness. And an itch. The welts all over him half-itched, half-stung, and if he scratched at them, they started to veer very hard into _stung._

M4 made him take off his clothes so she could survey the damage. The tunic and trousers had not been harmed, but the training bolts had somehow gone right through them and raised welts underneath. A quick scan with her diagnostic device confirmed what they already knew. At the settings Vader used, far harsher than Ben's, the training remotes caused something akin to first-degree burns, and now Luke had a _lot_ of them. They'd heal on their own, but medical attention would make it go faster.

"I'm just gonna draw you a bath, Master Luke," said M4, as cheery as before. She trotted to the fresher and started to fill the big bathtub, carefully monitoring the water's temperature.  He'd already taken a shower this morning, but he could tell this was for medical reasons, so he kept quiet. As he watched, she measured an amount of something that smelled suspiciously like bacta and mixed it in with the running water. "This'll cool the skin down and soothe it a bit without lowering your core temperature any.  I'm also going to leave a timer and a bottle of bacta salve. I want you to lie in the bath for exactly fifteen minutes, and then when the timer goes off, get out and pat yourself dry. When you're dry, rub the salve over your burns and sit in the open air for another ten minutes before you get dressed. Repeat the salve part twice a day for the next three days. And drink a lot of water - these kinds of burns really dry you out. Does that sound good? I can help with the salve, but you seem like the type who'd rather do it himself."

"Yeah, thanks," said Luke, who would definitely rather do that himself. Even just being undressed in front of a droid was a little uncomfortable.

"Okay," said M4. "I'll check with you again before you leave for that dinner thing on Coruscant, but it'll probably be healing up nicely by then. Call me right away if anything blisters or if the skin breaks." The water in the bathtub reached a level she approved of, and she turned off the taps. "In you go. That's all from me, I think. Any questions?"

Luke stepped into the water, which was luxuriously deep, and wrinkled his nose. The hospital smell of bacta was very strong, and the water was a little cooler than he'd like. But he didn't have questions. Not about himself.

"Can I ask you about Vader?" he asked.

M4 seemed to draw back ever so slightly, but it was a small movement, easy to miss. "I dunno. What about him?"

"He said he'd been relieved of command for mental health reasons," said Luke as he sat down, letting the water go up to his waist. It was a deep tub.

"Did he?" said M4, flat and uninterested.

"What happened?" Luke pressed.

He wanted to know. He knew it wasn't his business, but he couldn't help thinking through how recently it must have happened. Vader had been on a mission with Neap just yesterday, but then he'd found out about Luke. And when he kidnapped Luke, he'd been alone in an unarmed shuttle. No Neap, no guards, no troopers.

Luke knew it must have been Tarkin who relieved Vader of command. No one else had the authority to do that. Tarkin, from what Luke knew, was the kind of person who'd be concerned about Luke's Rebel status even if Vader ignored it. And he was the kind of person who could baldly lie that something was for Vader's own good when it wasn't.

Luke had an icky suspicion that Vader had been relieved of command because of _him._

"Remember what I said," said M4, "about doctor-patient confidentiality? No, of course you don't remember. Nobody ever remembers that part. _Bye,_ Master Luke."

She hit the timer button and flounced out of the room, ignoring all the apologies Luke spluttered after her.

He lay back in the cold bacta water and gave himself fifteen minutes to feel sorry for himself.

*

Here was what Luke, in the past half-day, had learned about Darth Vader:

Emperor Palpatine had turned him to the Dark Side and made him a Sith. He had trained Vader in ways that Vader said were unpleasant - ways he'd told Luke to pray that he never understood. Vader was determined not to train Luke in those ways. But he did not want to leave the Dark Side, or to stop being Sith, for himself.

He cared ferociously about protecting Luke from harm. He didn't seem to think kidnapping him contradicted this. He didn't want to let Luke go, but he hadn't seemed to give a kriff about letting him wander around unguarded until it became a safety issue. Same with giving him razors and solder pens, leaving the hangar unlocked, dressing him up like a prince. Vader didn't seem to be thinking about Luke clearly at all.

He liked droids. His droids, at least, were loyal to him.

He really didn't have many friends.

He cared about Emperor Tarkin for some reason, and there was a power dynamic between them that Luke didn't understand. Vader had needed Tarkin's help to stage a coup, and he didn't get to be Emperor himself unless Tarkin said so. And Tarkin, whether it was because of Luke or not, had just blithely taken that power away.

But Vader, the most unstoppable person in the galaxy, had barely even complained. He had praised both Tarkin and Luke's mother for how impossible they were to argue with. He had been unhappy when he told Luke about it - Luke had felt that - but it had been a muted unhappiness. Resignation. Like he was used to this kind of thing - being told what to do, having privileges given and taken away.

Like he was used to having a master.

That was what Luke knew. It almost added up to something.

*

By the time he'd followed all of M4's instructions and put his clothes back on, he was feeling better. But there was still an immediate problem: Vader was going to watch Luke more closely now. That would make getting away more difficult. Not impossible. But the plan would have to be more complicated than he'd assumed for that brief moment, when he looked out at the hangar with nothing separating him from those speeders but air.

Might as well go out and see how bad it was.

Taking a deep breath, Luke opened his door.

Sitting there in the doorway was a maintenance droid like the one he'd started fixing in Vader's workshop. This one was switched on and alert. It was about the size of an astromech, but its rounded form floated in the air instead of rolling. It bleeped an officious greeting.

Luke crouched next to the droid, extending a cautious hand. "Hey, little buddy. What's your name?"

The droid let him touch it. It bleeped a longer series of words. This was a binary language with a similar cadence to Artoo's, but Luke wasn't familiar with the dialect. He could only pick up the vague gist.

"You're here to guard me, right?" Luke said.

The droid beeped in agreement.

Vader could not command normal guards right now, so he'd enlisted his droids. A second one of the same model floated at the end of the short hallway, next to the turbolift. Droids like these probably couldn't stop Luke from going anywhere, not if he was really determined, but they could definitely alert Vader as soon as he strayed.

That would be a problem, but it was a problem he could work around. Easier than a human guard. He could start working this into his plan.

In the meantime, there was all that water M4 had told him to drink.

Luke straightened up, smiling down at the droid. "Looks like we're stuck with each other up here. Want to go get a snack?"

The droid beeped a _yes,_ and it floated after Luke all the way to the dining hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out again to SpookySpaghetties who didn't have time for detailed comments but still gave a much-needed quick checkover of the therapy scene to make sure I hadn't screwed up anything big; to KronosSion, who's been commenting with one of the philosophical questions that Vader gets to ask in the text now; and to 5Percento who hoped that Luke would get hurt so that he and M4 could bond. It was always the plan that Luke would need to be rescued in this chapter, but that comment spurred me to actually write out the dialogue between him and M4 instead of timeskipping. This also isn't the last we've seen of M4.
> 
> Comments are love and I appreciate you all <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Leia gets a teacher who is hesitant to teach her (and stands in the snow for a while).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: mentions of canon genocide(s)! not super detailed but, like, more than a token mention. other than that i think we're good

Mon Mothma had promised to find someone who could train Leia. As soon as Leia was finished her twenty-four hours of leave, she'd gone to Mothma and insisted that she did, in fact, want to train to be a Jedi and fight Darth Vader. Mothma had accepted that without complaint. But she wouldn't say a word about who this teacher was, or what they were going to do when they arrived.

They were in the Pantora system.  Lothal and Pantora, two systems not far from each other, had been liberated from Imperial control after Vader and Tarkin's coup. On Lothal a homegrown democracy was haltingly taking shape; on Pantora, they had rebuilt the Assembly that had governed them before the Clone Wars. Once the Imperials had been driven from both systems, the Rebels had made their new base in a rural part of Pantora, far enough from the cities to avoid easy detection, but close enough to assist where they could.

But today Leia wasn't on Pantora itself; she'd touched down on Orto Plutonia, the larger, colder, more sparsely populated world Pantora orbited.  Mothma had relieved Leia of all other duties today besides meeting her new teacher, and she'd arranged for it to happen here, in obscurity. Emperor Vader might have disbanded the Inquisitors, but he'd made it clear he would keep hunting people like Leia and this teacher, people who dared to turn the power of the Force against his Empire. The fewer people who knew how or where Leia was being trained, or by whom, the better.

It was the lack of other duties that really drove the change home. Today she wasn't a Rebel commander or a diplomat, a relief worker or a princess. She hoped she would take up those mantles again. But for now there was just this snowy plain.

She blew out her breath, watching it steam in the air, as she caught sight of a ship descending. Leia had worn a warm parka, with the furred hood pulled up over her head, covering the traditional mourning braid of her hair.

The ship was a small freighter, unremarkable-looking. At least it was in better repair than the _Millennium Falcon_. Leia waited as it landed a few yards in front of her, stirring up a whirlwind of snow.

When the snow settled, the ship's loading ramp extended. A tall figure made its way out, wrapped in its own heavy winter cloak. The head under the hood seemed much larger than a human head, coming to two points - it must be a Togruta, Leia thought, and then she realized what that meant, and she froze.

Ahsoka Tano came to the end of the ramp. She pulled up her hood enough to show her face, patterned with the symbol that had come to mean _Fulcrum,_ even after her supposed death. She smiled.

"Hey," she said. "You must be Leia."

"They told me you died," Leia blurted.

Ahsoka Tano had been with the Rebel Alliance from its beginning. She'd used her skills to coordinate between different Rebel cells, long before they'd come together into the unified force of today. She was stronger than Ezra Bridger or Kanan Jarrus, the two other Jedi Leia had briefly met - strong enough to take on a whole group of Inquisitors at once. Yoda and Obi-Wan Kenobi were probably even stronger, but they'd lived out the Empire's reign in hiding. Ahsoka had been the one who actually broke bread with Rebel soldiers, who spied for them and fought at their side.

And then she'd gone to Malachor, and she'd gone toe-to-toe with Darth Vader himself, and she'd died.

Leia couldn't have explained why such a wave of anger passed through her. Ahsoka deserved to live, and the Rebels needed people like her, but it irrationally felt like a slap in Leia's face. Of all the people who were dead and deserved to live, of all the people who could have turned out to be alive after all, it had to be someone Leia never knew.

She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. She focused until the anger melted away.

"It was better," said Ahsoka, "letting people think I did."

Leia opened her eyes. "They said Vader killed you."

A small sadness passed over Ahsoka's face. She gestured Leia inside. "With any luck, he thinks that, too. Come on in the ship. It's warmer."

*

The inside of the freighter was as nondescript as the outside, but it looked comfortable and lived-in, and there was a living space where the two of them could easily settle in across from each other, with a small table between them. Cozy, Leia thought. That was the word.

"Want some caf?" Ahsoka asked, gesturing to a device mounted securely on the wall. She had taken off her coat and hood, revealing the montrals that sprouted hornlike from her head and the lekku that hung down beneath them, striped blue and white.

"Yes, please," said Leia. A hot drink sounded perfect after all that time in the cold.

Ahsoka took out a packet of ground beans and tore it open, carefully shaking the brown powder into the top of the device. "Mon Mothma told me what happened. I'm sorry. It must be a lot at once."

Leia didn't like it when people told her they were sorry. "I appreciate that, but I'm not here for condolences. I'm here to train."

"Right." Ahsoka smiled.

Leia tried to get a read on her. Throughout her twenty-four hours of leave, she'd taken little excursions through the mess halls or the streets, anyplace where there were people. She'd closed her eyes and tried to sense who was around her, what they were thinking, without letting herself see their faces. She'd had mixed results.

She definitely felt something from Ahsoka. But it wasn't an emotion so much as a _presence._ Grounded but clean, bright but clear, attentive and centered. Like a white light. Maybe this was what a Light Side Force user, fully trained and in command of themselves, was supposed to feel like.

"Mon Mothma said you wanted training," Ahsoka explained. "We don't know where Master Yoda is, so I guess I'm the next best thing. But we're not going to jump into that right away. I'd rather get to know each other first. I know this whole situation is weird, but being trained in the Force is a big commitment. I want to give us the chance to see if we're a good fit."

"You mean you're testing me," Leia answered levelly. She wasn't offended. If she was a Jedi Master, she would have tested her new recruits, too.

"Not exactly." Ahsoka flicked a switch on the brewing machine, and water began to flow in to a compartment in its side. "You see, this is a little weird for me, too. Did Mon Mothma tell you very much about me? About my background?"

Leia raised her eyebrows. "I know you were a Jedi before the Purge, and I know about the work you've done with the Rebellion." But there was hesitance in that white light of a mind now. Ahsoka was... not _hiding_ something, she was going to get around to discussing it, but there was something that she worried would not go over well. Something she thought might make _Leia_ reject _her._

Ahsoka shook her head. "I'm not a Jedi."

Leia raised her eyebrows even higher.

"I was raised by the Order," Ahsoka explained. "Ever since I was three. I was a Padawan apprentice. I worked on the front lines with Jedi in the Clone Wars. But I left the Order when I was younger than you. And by the time I was ready to think about going back..." She spread her hands sadly, something old and sad stirring in her mind.

"Vader killed them all," Leia supplied for her in a low voice.

She knew Ahsoka had survived the Jedi Purge. Children had joined the old Jedi Order very young; most of them so young that they remembered nothing else. The Order was their family and their culture. And it had all been wiped out in a single day.  From a single cruel man's order.

It wasn't Alderaan. It wasn't literally a planet. But Ahsoka knew what it was like to lose something almost that large. And it had been done to her by the same man.

Leia knew it, bone-deep, as she watched how the grief still gathered in that clear white light of a mind. No one else had anything to say about Alderaan but their own regrets and platitudes. But Ahsoka _understood._

"Not Vader," Ahsoka corrected, her voice soft and sad. She looked off into the distance. "Don't get me wrong, he joined in. He finished it. But it was Palpatine's plan. Most of the purge, the first wave, was just clones acting on Palpatine's orders. It wasn't their fault - they had control chips planted in their brains." Something in the caf maker pinged, and Ahsoka blinked and turned to it, shaking off her reverie. "Sorry, you don't need to hear about that."

"I do," said Leia, on some impulse.

She could feel Ahsoka's mind. There was an immense sadness in her, but it was old; it was something that had been worked through and settled as much as anything like this ever could. It still hurt, but the hurt was clear and still, like a deep pool of water.

For a moment, Ahsoka looked back and held her gaze.

Then she busied herself with the caf maker, drawing out the pitcher full of fresh caf and pouring some into a mug. "Anyway, that's one thing I want to warn you about. I've never trained anybody before. I can do a lot of things, but I never accepted the rank of Jedi Knight, and I don't have the right to take a Padawan. But in times like these we make do with what we have." She put down the pitcher, once the mug was full, and proffered the drink. "Cream? Sugar?"

"Black, please." Leia took the mug from Ahsoka's hands and took a hot, soothing sip. "And I think that's fine. I don't think I really want to be a Padawan, not the old way. I don't want a master." The Jedi of the old Order had given their lives to it totally, forsaking almost everything else but the Force. Leia didn't think that way of doing things was wrong, as long as they could leave when they wanted to. But Leia wasn't a three-year-old. She _had_ a life, and grown-up responsibilities, and she couldn't abandon them all. Not forever. "I just want some help figuring out how to use this power."

Ahsoka nodded gravely. "What do you want to use it for?"

Leia was ready for that question. "I want to take down Darth Vader. Before he can hurt anyone else."

"Just that?" said Ahsoka.

There was no warning in her voice, but she was alert. She wasn't judging Leia, but she was in some way testing her.

Leia met her gaze. "Not just that. I think the Rebellion could use a Jedi's help in all sorts of ways. A Jedi can keep the peace, resolve disputes, use their powers to sense danger... If I can help the Rebellion in any of those ways, I want to do it. But Vader's my priority. No one else is strong enough to take him on, and he has to be stopped."

Ahsoka nodded, accepting that answer with a small frown of concern. "Mon Mothma told you..."

"That he's my father. Yes." Leia took another swallow of her coffee and grimaced. "But it doesn't matter to me. I'm not going to let him keep hurting people. And he's not entitled to sympathy from me after what he _did_."

Ahsoka looked sideways at the coffee machine. Something had disturbed her, but it wasn't Leia, or at least not directly. Leia felt the sense, again, that she was holding something back. "How do you think I can help?"

"I think I've already been using the Force," said Leia. "I can sense people's intentions. I can tell when things are going to happen, sometimes. I used it to... defend myself, when I was a prisoner. I even know how to meditate and keep my mind under control. I only didn't understand that it was the Force. I thought I was just... thinking faster than other people. Focusing more."

"It's partly that," said Ahsoka. Her gaze had returned to Leia's, quietly approving. "But it's more than that, too."

"I want to take the things I can do now and push them further," said Leia. "Two days ago I was fighting the Empire with only the weapons I knew were possible. If I'm going to win this, I need more than that. I need to use every bit of the power I really have."

She put down her empty mug, and Ahsoka eyed her.  "Why don't we take a walk outside? You can show me what you know how to do, and I can figure out what you might want to learn next."

Leia agreed. Before long they had put their parkas, mitts, and boots back on and walked out onto the snow-covered plain. There wasn't much wind today; the sky was clear, and it was very quiet. Orto Plutonia belonged to its native life forms, the Talz, but their population was sparse, and the Rebels had already negotiated a tentative agreement that included Talz self-governance as a part of the Pantora system's freedom. The Talz, in return, had agreed Rebels could visit the planet in limited numbers. Leia and Ahsoka had set down somewhere out of the way, where they and the Talz would not cross paths.

"Stop here," said Ahsoka a few hundred yards out from the ship, and Leia stopped.  "You said you meditate. Can you show me how?"

"Yes, of course," said Leia.

She closed her eyes. She started to take deep breaths, slow breaths, the way her father had taught her. She focused on the sensation of her breath, bitingly cold as she inhaled. As she exhaled, she could feel the warmth of it under her nose, the steam dissipating into the winter air. Everything else, all the thoughts and worries in her head, she imagined evaporating like the steam with each breath.

Leia was good at this, but she couldn't shake the feeling of Ahsoka's presence next to her. Even through closed eyes, Ahsoka was bright like a light, real like the cold of the air. Leia breathed, letting the feeling of the Togruta next to her be just another part of the environment, something she neither chased after nor resisted. She wasn't sure if she was doing it right, by Ahsoka's standards, but she knew how to handle that kind of doubt; she breathed it out, let it escape into the air. All she could do was the task in front of her right now.

"That's good," said Ahsoka after a few minutes, and Leia opened her eyes.

"That's what I learned on Alderaan," said Leia. "I can do a Gatalentan skyfaring meditation, too, but that needs props. My friend Amilyn's got a scaffolding set up for it at the base."

Ahsoka smiled. "Maybe a bit later. I've never seen skyfaring before. This is good, though. You've got good focus."

Leia smiled back, hiding the nervousness she felt. "Thank you."

"I'm going to try you with a lightsaber," said Ahsoka. "Have you ever fought with a bladed weapon? A sword, an axe, a knife, anything like that."

Leia shook her head. "Just blasters. But I'm a good shot."

"I bet you would be." Ahsoka reached into her cloak, unclipped something, and held it out.

Leia held her breath; she knew what the hilt of a lightsaber looked like. She'd never used one before.

"I'm going to give you this to hold," Ahsoka said. "Feel what it's like in your hand. To the Jedi, every lightsaber is alive and unique. It's got a history. It was made by someone, and it remembers everyone who's ever used it. Take it seriously."

Leia nodded, taking a deep breath. "I will."

She took the saber from Ahsoka's hand.  It was deceptively small, rounded at the ends, but heavier than it looked. It had a comfortable grip, inlaid with elaborate patterns. There was a switch near the thumb which was obviously for turning it on and off, but no other visible controls.

It was made of metal, but it didn't feel like holding an inert object. It felt like holding someone's hand. Leia could feel it the way she felt people's minds; it didn't have thoughts passing through its head the way a person did, but there was a sense of something there, some emotion, some history. This saber had known pain before, and it had known healing.

"I can feel it," Leia said, her eyes flicking back up to meet Ahsoka's. "When you said it's alive-"

Ahsoka smiled again, and she seemed to make a decision. "Yeah. Let's try you on a Shii-Cho stance. Before you even think about swinging the saber, you've got to be grounded correctly, stable on your feet." She shifted slightly, standing a bit more widely, one foot further in front than the other and tilted slightly. "Can you copy me? Stand like this."

Leia tried her best to imitate the position. Ahsoka fussed over her and corrected small details. She had to have her weight evenly distributed over both feet, her hips straight, the feet's corners all pressing down on the earth just so. But at last Leia was standing in a way that satisfied her.

"Okay. Now hold out your saber arm, this way."

Leia tried it, and again Ahsoka ensured her arm was placed just so. Leia was familiar with this kind of thing from climbing instructors, shooting instructors, even Amilyn with the skyfaring - she knew the importance of getting the fundamentals right. But Ahsoka seemed even fussier than the instructors Leia had before, often making adjustments so miniscule Leia could barely feel them.

Or - no, that wasn't right. Leia could barely feel them with her body. But if she reached out, she could feel them with her _mind._

Once she got her head around _that_ , it started to go faster.

"Okay," Ahsoka said at last. "Turn it on."

Without moving anything but her thumb, Leia pressed the button, and the blade extended. It was pure white - completely different, more radiant, than the white of the snow.

"It's beautiful," said Leia, not moving, just staring at it.

"It is," said Ahsoka. She walked a half circle around Leia, inspecting her form. "And it will destroy almost anything it touches. That power in itself isn't dark or light; it's just what a saber is. But it's something too powerful to ever use in anger. Nineteen times out of twenty, even in pitched battle against people who want to kill us, a Jedi doesn't use this blade to attack. It's for deflecting attacks, or for cutting through objects." A mischievous smile flicked over her face for a moment. "But the twentieth time? When you're up against another blade like yours? That's when you need all the training you can get."

She ran Leia through a series of moves and forms that were definitely too slow to be attacks. She was exacting about the details as before, but it was invigorating work, and it was easy to lose track of the time. There was something good about moving like this, with a living thing of power in her hand.

"Okay. This is good," Ahsoka said at last, and Leia turned the lightsaber back off. She handed it back to Ahsoka, hilt-first. "You did good. I'm going to formally offer to train you. I can't offer you everything a Jedi Master could, but I can see you've got a talent for this, and I think I can see how I'd teach you." She turned and started to walk back through the snow toward the ship, and Leia followed. "But before you agree, there's one more thing you need to know."

"What?" said Leia. She wasn't surprised. She had felt this brewing in Ahsoka's mind, one last secret that she thought might make Leia turn away.

"I'm not offering to make you a Padawan. I couldn't do that if I wanted to. But the bond between a master and a Padawan - that's strong in ways I'm not sure I can explain. Jedi didn't have families, but we weren't, I don't know, heartless. Not the way people used to think. In a lot of ways the people we trained with were our families."  Ahsoka flicked some hidden switch in the pocket of her coat, and the ship's loading ramp extended again. She looked back at Leia, meeting her eyes. "You need to know that I was Anakin Skywalker's Padawan."

Leia blinked, then scowled. "But you fought him."

"I did." She gestured Leia in after her, and Leia hurried back aboard, letting the ramp close up behind them.

"You were trying to stop him," Leia pressed, dreading what would happen if the answer was _no._ She needed to make sure of this. She liked what she'd seen of Ahsoka so far, but she couldn't have a teacher whose loyalties were divided. That wouldn't _work._ "The way I am. Weren't you?"

Ahsoka sighed and looked down, pulling the hood carefully away from her montrals. The difference in age between the two of them struck Leia strangely. Ahsoka wasn't old by any means, but she was closer to Mon Mothma's age than Leia's. "I was, and I wasn't. I was conflicted. Which is why I barely made it out of there, I guess."

Leia moved to take off her own coat, but she didn't move her eyes from Ahsoka's. "If I want to take Vader down, whatever it takes, are you going to try to stop me?"

"No." Ahsoka broke eye contact first. "I thought that over before I came. I'm going to give you the skills to do it. This isn't the kind of thing where a master can dictate to you what's right and what's wrong. You have to listen to your own heart."

Leia narrowed her eyes. She could recognize tactful doublespeak as well as anyone. "You're not going to stop me. But you don't want me to do it."

Ahsoka sighed and looked away into the ship's corridors.

"The thing is," she said, " I know the old Anakin is still in there, and he's hurting. I wanted to deny it at first, but when I faced him, I _felt_ it." She hugged herself. "But I can't save him. Even with Emperor Palpatine gone, I don't know if anyone can. I can feel compassion for Darth Vader and still accept that the things he's done to the galaxy can't go on. The people he's hurt need our compassion even more." She looked back at Leia, graver than ever. "People like you."

This wasn't what Leia had wanted. She wanted a glorious battle of light versus darkness. She didn't want a teacher who cared about Darth Vader's _feelings._ She didn't want a teacher who still, deep down, wanted to save him.

But Ahsoka knew what had to be done. And she was the option Leia had in front of her. In times like these they made do with what they had.

Leia jerked her chin down in a tight nod. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> behold, we now have a projected number of chapters! though it is _very_ tentative, and my initial projections are usually too small. and even once I finish this fic, there will be... a lot more loose ends that could be pursued further into the series.
> 
> meanwhile, unrelatedly: I am now taking [Kinktober prompts.](https://madeofsplinters.tumblr.com/post/627899775471304704/kinktober-prompts)
> 
> comments are love <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we timeskip over like 24 more hours of incessant questions; Luke notices the flaws in his escape plan a little too late; there is a speeder chase with only one speeder in it, droid parkour, an impulsive use of the Dark Side, and a gratuitous shower scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Note: vehicle crash, also a... non-consensual telepathic connection type thing? I don't know the snappy TW term for this but it's a _thing_

The rest of Luke's day passed at a weird, intermittent pace. Vader burst into rooms insisting on spending time with his son one moment, then stormed out the next, as if he craved Luke's presence but could barely stand it when it arrived. He pushed Luke to choose one of Tarkin's vids to watch, since Vader didn't apparently have vids of his own. He sent Luke to a dinner with Piett which was, at least, a bit less embarrassing than breakfast. He spent more time with Luke in the workshop and encouraged him to hone his Force skills - even when that meant pushing close to Vader's mind trying to read it, and inevitably getting too close to something sensitive and making Vader storm out again. He quizzed Luke uncomfortably about his time on Tatooine, and Luke quizzed him right back.

Something was beginning to bother Luke. He had set out to learn about Vader, since he was a prisoner anyway and might as well get something useful out of it. He had learned things that _worried_ him - Vader was mentally ill, Vader had been treated badly, Vader felt a constant inchoate regret that he wouldn't quite admit to - but what was Luke planning to do about them? What did he think the Rebellion could do? He could imagine Leia's stern face, softened by relief at having him back, but still without much time for bullshit. _So Darth Vader feels bad sometimes,_ he could imagine her saying. _That's not actionable intel. That doesn't tell us how we can fight him._

Luke didn't know what his goal was. Even if he learned exactly why Vader had fallen to the Dark Side, a full coherent story that explained everything about him, what did he want to do about it? How would it help? He didn't know.

He just knew that Vader was his father. And Luke needed to understand.

*

He learned his mother's name. _Padmé Amidala_ was a pretty name. He learned about how she'd fought to save her planet when she was younger than Luke. How Vader, himself a child, had mistaken her for an angel. How she was only queen for a term of a few years, because that was how people did things on Naboo, and she later became a Senator - the same job Leia had, before Emperor Palpatine got rid of the whole Senate.

Luke learned that Anakin had been no older than him when the Clone Wars started, and only a few years older than that when he fell. He'd been Luke's age when he was secretly married. That part weirded Luke out. Luke had never even dated anybody.

He learned that his parents had both wanted him. They had been excited to have a baby, even though it meant risking both of their careers.

He learned that, for some reason, Jedi weren't supposed to get married.

He learned more about using the Force. If he concentrated he could sense all kinds of people's minds, not just Vader's. Piett and the servants had normal minds, faint and slight in the Force compared to Vader, but he could feel them if he tried. Piett, at dinner, was torn between a desire to be politely helpful and a desire to stay as far out of Lord Vader's strange family drama as possible. The servants were curious, but frightened of making a mistake, and too long-ingrained in their peculiar servants' manners to openly show either one. Luke's attempts to put them at ease only sent each of them skittering back to the shadows. It still bothered him that there were servants here.

He learned he could move little things like washers and screws with his mind, though not reliably. When he tried pulling his blue lightsaber to his hand, Vader's much stronger Force presence clamped down and stopped him. He turned his masked face to Luke in what was definitely an unimpressed look.

Luke learned that the feel of the air egging him on, in the training room, had been the Dark Side. That bothered him. Everybody kept warning him against the Dark Side, but nobody had actually explained what it was. He'd assumed that what distinguished the Dark from the Light was that the Dark was for evil things. Hurting people for no reason. But according to Vader, the Dark Side was more to do with what emotions the user was feeling. That didn't quite make sense to Luke, but then, there was a lot here that didn't make sense to him.

He learned that the Clone Wars, according to Vader, had dragged on and on and been mismanaged by everyone involved. He learned about the clones from which the Wars took their name and the droid armies that had been raised against them. He learned an oddly small amount, almost nothing, about the Jedi Order.

He learned that Vader shared Tarkin's concerns about his mental health - there had been an incident recently, though he wouldn't say what kind of incident, which had not involved Luke, and so Vader didn't think Luke was what caused his removal from power. Vader said he hadn't wanted power that badly anyway. But that raised a few more questions than it answered.

He learned that the Dark Side itself had changed somehow, only a few days ago, because of something Vader did on his mission. But Vader wouldn't say how or what it was. The Dark Side was still as evil as before, Vader said, but it was no longer under Palpatine's control. Except that didn't make sense, because Palpatine had already died before that. And when Luke asked if Palpatine was a ghost, Vader had denied it with startling vehemence. Maybe Vader just really hated ghosts for some reason. Maybe the Dark Side changing was a metaphor for Vader changing. It was hard to tell.

He learned that Vader did not believe in ghosts.

He learned a weird amount about podracing.

He learned, in other words, all sorts of things, except for the one thing he wanted to learn most. No matter how Luke asked, Vader wouldn't talk about why he'd turned to the Dark Side. Palpatine seemed to have something to do with that and so did whatever had happened to Padmé. But Luke didn't know why his father had fallen.

He didn't know if there was any chance it might be undone.

*

At some point in the long, muggy midafternoon of Luke's second day at the fortress, Vader brought out one of Emperor Tarkin's excruciatingly complicated strategy games. Luke tried to be a good sport and play it, but after several turns he began to despair. Even after going through the tutorial, there were just so many different units spread over so many squares on the board, with so many different possible moves for each, and it made his head ache. They were in the wide-open room on the fortress's top floor, and a maintenance droid hovered by the turbolift, guarding him. There had been droids like this guarding Luke ever since the incident in the training room, whether Vader was there with him or not.

"It is your move," Vader prompted him, gesturing to the complex arrangement of units on the holographic board. Vader's units were mostly animals and alien creatures; Luke's were a smattering of everything. He remembered whose units were whose only because they were color-coded. The heat was getting to him, and his burns were starting to itch again. He didn't remember why he'd spread his forces out into this position, or what he'd planned to do, or even which of his units were strongest - if "strongest" was the right word when each unit had four or five different combat stats, which combined in complicated ways.

"I hate this game," Luke whined. "Why does a game have to be as complicated as tactics in real life? I can't even remember what I'm trying to do."

"It will become easier." Vader gestured at the board. "Do not fixate on the numbers. Act on your instincts. Imagine that these are the Rebels, and-"

Luke jerked backward. "Don't joke about that."

"About the Rebellion?" Vader seemed genuinely confused. "Why not?"

"The Rebels are people, father. Real people, people you've killed. They're my friends. Don't joke about them."

Vader tilted his head, still confused. "I had not intended to joke."

Luke buried his face in his hands.

"You will find new friends," said Vader. "In time. You are lonely here, but there will be many more suitable people your age on Coruscant. You will adjust."

Luke pushed away from the table, suddenly enraged. He'd been trying so hard to be patient with Vader, to endure his father's strangeness for these two days so that he could answer the questions that bothered him, but somehow this pushed him past the edge of his temper. "I don't want new friends! I want you to stop _killing the ones I already have!_ "

Vader stood up, mirroring him. The Force crackled around Vader, but he wasn't enraged, not the way Luke was. Not yet. Only _unhappy._

"I have been very patient," said Vader. "I have given you everything here that it is in my power to give. I have protected you from your own foolishness. I have put up with your incessant questions and your demands for explanation of all the things that grieve me most. I have ignored the fact that two months ago you nearly _killed the man I love,_ because you are my son, and that is more important to me than such squabbles. I do not expect you to love me, not yet. But do not bring the war with the Rebels into this fortress, where I have done everything I can, for your sake, to keep it _out._ "

Luke stood his ground. "You can't keep a war out of your fortress when you're fighting it, father. They're still my friends. Your side is still killing them."

"And you still plan to escape to them when you can," Vader countered. "You have not yet seen why that is impossible."

Luke blinked, suddenly frightened.

He'd been experimenting with the Force, of course, and that included him and Vader sensing each other's minds. He knew Vader had more practice at that than Luke did; he could probably sense more about Luke than Luke could about him. Luke had planned to escape later tonight, after Vader went to sleep; but he hadn't thought Vader knew.

And what did he mean, _impossible?_

"You are still too new at this," Vader said coldly, "to this to know what your feelings mean. Have you not noticed that it has become easier and easier for us to sense each other's minds?"

"Sure," said Luke. "That's because I've been practicing."

"No. It has become easier on both sides." Vader crossed his arms. "Because you have acknowledged me in your heart as your father. Among Jedi and Sith alike, pairs of individuals with a close bond can sense each other with a special keenness, even at a distance. The more usual case was a master and apprentice. It does not surprise me to learn that being family will also suffice."

Luke took a step back as the horror of what this meant began to really dawn on him.

"At a distance?" he repeated. "What - what kind of distance?"

"I do not know. It has not been tested, and our bond is not yet at its full strength. But you will recall the Inquisitors, who hunted Jedi. They could sense the presence of any Jedi at a distance, particularly a Jedi they had fought before. I am much stronger than an Inquisitor, and you are much more to me than mere prey. It will be no easy task for you to hide from me. Flee, if it entertains you to do so. I will have nothing to do but give chase."

Luke took another step back, shaking. He should have worked this out himself. He'd heard about how the Rebels kept their Jedi at a distance, back when the Inquisitors were around, for the safety of both the Jedi and their friends. But he'd thought it would be different-

No. He hadn't thought about it at all.

He'd clung to the idea that he was leaving in two days and coming back to his friends, because that was the only way to make the fortress bearable. He could handle the fortress if it was a _temporary_ fortress. A weird, disturbing place to visit in which he'd be scared and do his best, learn things he needed to learn. It would be a rough time but he'd laugh about it in hindsight once it all made sense - once he'd been welcomed back with open arms by his friends, he was going back to his _friends-_

The fortress's black and red walls didn't actually move, but they seemed to close on him even more oppressively than a minute ago. The lava was swirling up to meet him. Vader towered over him like a cliffside about to collapse.

Luke turned on his heel and ran.

He barely expected to get away. The maintenance droid bleeped an offended noise and maneuvered into his path, but he vaulted straight over it and dived into the turbolift. Vader was striding toward him, and the startled droid rushed forward with a higher-pitched set of beeps, but Luke slammed his hand onto the _close_ and _first floor_ buttons and the lift doors barely, mercifully closed.

He caught his breath as the lift began to lower - more slowly than he wanted, but a slow lift was actually a good thing. The lift would take some amount of time to deliver Luke where he was going, and some amount of time to rise again when Vader called it back. And then some amount of time to take Vader down, chasing him...

It gave him the head start he needed, and against a pursuer like Vader he would need every bit of it.

Luke did not think about how Vader could have pried the lift doors open if he'd wanted to. He did not think about how Vader could probably use the Force to stop the whole lift. He did not think about how, in a fortress like this, Vader and his servants would probably have a manual override for every lift and every door.

He did not think about _flee, if it entertains you._

He _couldn't._

Luke braced himself against the edge of the lift, knowing that to outrun Vader he'd have to run faster than he'd ever run before. As soon as the doors opened on the first floor, he leapt out and hit the ground running - and was greeted by a huge chorus of alarmed, offended beeps from a crowd of maintenance droids - they must have assembled here under some kind of summons from Vader. Luke didn't stop. He pushed past some of them, dived under others. He ran into the workshop, past the TIE fighter's engine, smacked the button to open the door to the hangar, and ran out into the muggy, ashy air, to Vader's TIE-

To Vader's _replica_ TIE, which didn't have an engine in it right now, because that was what Vader had been tinkering with all this time in the workshop. Luke could see, now that he was up closer, where the TIE's engine compartment hung open revealing less than the amount of machinery that should have been in a ship that size.

Okay, so there was more than one flaw in this plan.

He ran and threw himself into the next-nearest vehicle, a souped-up airspeeder with an open cockpit that looked like it could go _really_ fast. It wouldn't be able to leave the atmosphere, but it could get him to the nearest settlement. Vader had said there were mines on Mustafar, right? There'd be _something._

It needed a key, but Luke had learned from Han how to hot-wire speeders. A couple of hurried destructive motions at the console, and then he got the right couple of inner wires to spark together. The speeder rumbled to life. Luke lit the engines, yanked the throttle, and _zoomed_ off the cliff into the lifeless lava plain.

This thing really moved! It responded to him so effortlessly and it went so _fast._ The air whipped past Luke's face as acceleration pressed him back in his seat; the tower of Fortress Vader and its ridiculous lava-waterfall-cliff quickly shrank in the distance. Luke didn't feel happy - he was too far into panic for that - but, at the sheer sensation of flying away, he could feel himself _grin._

It was a miracle he'd managed to get to the hangar before Vader appeared. It would be a whole other miracle if he could get to safety before Vader caught up with him. But he had to try.

Okay, so what now?

Luke was speeding as fast as he could over a lifeless lava plain. There was black, ashy, uneven ground, and there were rivers and rivulets of glowing lava. The air was breathable, but hot and smoggy, and everything smelled like burnt iron. Aside from Fortress Vader, already fading to a speck, there was no sign of life.

There must be a settlement _somewhere,_ if for no other reason than to keep Fortress Vader supplied.  But a planet was a big place. Tatooine had its share of huge, lifeless wastes, places an unwary person could disappear into forever, even with a vehicle - and Mustafar was even less settled than Tatooine. Luke wasn't even sure if he was going in the right direction.

He closed his eyes, feeling the wind whip past his face, and tried to breathe. He had to think this through.

"Ben..." he whispered, white-knuckled, hoping Ben's ghost could be summoned somehow, but of course he felt nothing.

He knew what Ben would tell him, though. Ben would tell him to _use the Force._

Luke tried to empty his mind, to focus the way he'd focused when he sensed how the training remote would fire. Maybe he could trust his reflexes. Maybe his instincts would lead him to people who could help him.

But when he reached out with his senses, he only felt the Dark Side hanging in the air like smog.

He couldn't see or hear Vader, but he could feel Vader's presence in the back of his mind, coldly angry, implacable, very sure of how this would end. Luke remembered having Vader on his tail at Yavin. Luke was an excellent pilot, but even he couldn't shake Vader, not once Vader locked on. He had to get far enough to ditch the speeder and lose pursuit before that happened.

The Dark Side was strongest back at the fortress, but in Mustafar's wilds it was everywhere. Luke could feel himself and the speeder cutting through it like butter. What if he reached out to the Dark Side instead of shying away? Just this once. Just because the alternative was even worse. Luke could feel himself move through the Dark Side-infused air; maybe if he focused on the Dark, he could feel other people moving through it, too. That wouldn't be falling to the Dark Side, not really. He wasn't going to use it to fight anybody or lash out. He'd only  see through its eyes for one short moment.

He opened his eyes, narrowly avoiding a bunch of crags. His knuckles were white on the speeder's controls. His heart was pounding.

He reached out to the Dark Side.

It was awful. Rage, terror and despair pulsed under Luke's skin. Vader had done this to him. It wasn't fair! Even if he got out, after this, he'd have to look over his shoulder for Vader for the rest of his life, in ways the rest of the Rebels couldn't comprehend. Maybe the Rebels wouldn't even accept him back after this. Vader wanted to be a father but Vader didn't _care_ how that hurt him. Vader thought it was his right to have Luke here no matter what Luke thought.

But Luke could feel more - just as he hoped he would - now that he was working with what the Force here truly _was,_ and not what he wanted it to be. The Dark Side eddied around his speeder like a current in water, and he could feel it. He could feel the way the lava gullies burned underneath him. If he pushed himself, if he grit his teeth and expanded his mind to the limits of his endurance, he could feel the Dark Side filling the air for what seemed like miles. All of that rocky, ashy, half-melted space...

And nothing alive in it but him.

Him and the familiar presence of his father, miles behind him now, far outside the bounds of the other things he could sense this way. Kriff, it was true. Luke could sense where Vader was even at a distance, and that meant Vader, with so much more experience, could sense _him._

_Son,_ said Vader's impatient voice in his head.

Luke twitched so hard he almost crashed the speeder. Vader hadn't told him he could do _that!_

He retracted his senses as fast as he could, pulling his mind back into the bounds of his own head. He thought he'd heard something about Force users shielding their senses, but Luke didn't know how to do that. In his panic, all he could think of to do was stop trying to sense things. He did that, frantically, but it didn't help very much. He could still feel the Dark Side, because he'd let it into his head. He could still feel his father like a black flame, looming.

_My son,_ Vader repeated, loud in his head. _Cease this foolishness and return where you belong._

"NO!" Luke shouted, and he gave a wild mental _push_.

But that didn't make Vader go away. Instead anger and fear, _hate_ for the man who could call himself Luke's father and still do this to him, rose up so strongly they blinded him. The world seemed to flip around, and-

The ground came up against him hard.

He skidded, the speeder scraping to a halt against the uneven black ground with a sound like the world's biggest fingernail on a chalkboard. Parts of it snapped off and rolled away. Luke ducked down and curled with his arms over his head protectively. The engine roared and then puttered and then gave out completely, belching out its last breath, as the speeder came completely to rest.

Luke raised his head, despondent. He'd pushed too hard with the Dark Side and ended up physically pushing the speeder out of control. He'd come to rest on a flattish patch of rocky ground a few dozen yards from the nearest lava flow. He'd gotten thrown around a little in the crash but he didn't feel badly hurt, just bruised and scraped. The speeder, though. That wasn't in good shape at _all._

He climbed out of the cockpit and onto the ground, cursing under his breath.

_Are you hurt?_ said Vader's voice in his head.

Luke only growled.

_Wait where you are,_ Vader instructed. _I will retrieve you._

Luke sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.

He wasn't too hurt to walk. He could keep running. He could dash away into the burning wastes with nothing but the stupid Imperial clothes on his back, finding a route that wove between the lava rivers, and then...

And then nothing. He'd felt it himself; there was no settlement close enough to walk to. Even if he could find a walking route that didn't come to a molten dead end, he'd either die of thirst or heatstroke, or - more likely - Vader would find him in a few minutes anyway. It was pointless to resist.

Luke was never going to see his friends again. He was stuck here, psychically bonded to his horrible father, in the middle of lava and ash and the pain of the Dark Side. Forever.

*

After a minute or two Luke heard the humming of another speeder. He knew what it was. He didn't look up.

He heard the speeder come to a halt. Vader got out hurriedly, his heavy boots crunching on the ground, but then he paused. He stood over Luke, looking him over, only his breath making a sound.

"We cannot all choose our destinies, my son," said Vader at last. His voice was oddly gentle. He seemed _sad._

Luke raised his head, glaring. His eyes were starting to water from the smoke in the air, and he sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist. Fine black ash had settled on his skin. "This isn't destiny. You did this to me."

"The mental bond?" Vader asked.

Luke pressed his palms against his eyes in frustration. It was the mental bond, but it was so much more. He couldn't deal with this forever. He couldn't deal with being trapped here with Vader for real.

"I did not make that happen on purpose," said Vader. "I would not do that to you."

Luke didn't move, and abruptly Vader bent and picked him up. He flailed a little, embarrassed to be carried like a kid, but Vader's grip was implacable, and he set Luke down in the passenger seat of the speeder. It was slightly more comfortable than sitting curled on the ground. Vader sat down in the driver's seat. He  adjusted the controls, and the airspeeder lifted off again.

"A Force bond cannot be created by conscious effort," Vader explained as the hot wind whipped past them again. "My master thought otherwise. He would perform experiments to see how far he and I could deepen our own bond; he wished to create a full dyad, in which both souls are inseparable. But it never worked. A Force bond is only a reflection in the Force of the emotional links that are already there. You cannot control it any more than you control the inner workings of your body. Ours began as soon as you called me _father_ in your heart."

Luke tried very hard to take that back. _You're not my father,_ he thought, intentionally and viciously, trying to mean it. But he knew it wasn't true. Luke knew perfectly well who Vader was.

"You could have warned me," he said.

"Would that have changed anything?"

"You could have given me a choice." Luke glared up at Vader. The Dark Side still itched and hummed under his skin, and he hated that, too. He wanted to take that rash decision back, but he didn't know how. Ben had warned him - if he turned to the Dark Side, even for a moment, he might lose everything. "You kidnapped me."

The landscape flew by underneath them. Vader didn't have Luke's panicked urgency, but he drove fast and hard by habit. "What other choice did _I_ have? Let you keep being a Rebel, when I could make you a prince? Hide myself and never meet you, when I finally know you are alive?"

"You could have _asked_ me," said Luke. "Instead of threatening my friends. You could have asked if I wanted to keep being a Rebel."

"And what then? The Empire plans to destroy the Rebellion, and the Rebellion plans to destroy the Empire. The Rebels want _me_ dead most of all. Should I have left you with your Rebel friends when you asked, knowing it would sooner or later mean your death? If you had come to the fullness of your power with the Rebels, they would have expected you to try to kill me yourself, even knowing we were family. Do you truly prefer that to living here, in luxury and peace, being a prince? Neither of us has to harm the other this way."

"You don't _have_ to harm anybody," Luke snapped. "You don't have a master making you do it anymore. Why can't you just stop killing Rebels?"

Vader was silent a moment.

"The Rebels are the ones who set themselves against the Empire," he said at last, as the burning landscape raced past.

That was only true on a technicality. The Empire had declared itself over the galaxy without caring very much what the galaxy thought. The Rebels wanted to destroy it because it hurt people. But he didn't think Vader was ever going to agree with him about _that_.

"Yeah, but they've got two systems to themselves now," Luke said instead. Surely he could at least convince Vader to kill Rebels _less._ "Why not just let them stay there? I'm not saying you can't shoot back if they shoot at your fortresses or whatever. But you could stop, you know, tracking them down to find their base and taking them prisoner and blowing up planets full of people who never did anything-"

He swallowed hard.

There was another, telling, pause.

"That is Jedi logic," Vader said at last. "To allow the enemy to fester, to superficially defend oneself while leaving the enemy's true heart alone, because you cannot bear to dirty your hands. That way of thinking lost them the war. And I am no longer a Jedi."

Luke turned and looked at his father, surprised. "I thought you said they lost because they were plotting to overthrow Palpatine."

It did not escape him how Vader's gloved hands tightened on the controls, or how his mind turned in on itself, darker than before. "They lost for a number of reasons."

"And then _you_ overthrew him anyway." Luke was too exhausted and too spiteful not to needle his father this way. What was Vader going to do if he pushed too hard, kill him? It wouldn't be _that_ much worse than having to be Darth Vader's obedient son forever. "So, what, treason's only okay when you do it? I know you didn't like Palpatine. Why do you even like the Empire when _he_ made it?"

Vader turned to Luke, and although Luke could feel a foul mood brewing inside that helmet, it was not as _angry_ a mood as he'd expected. Vader looked him up and down, darkly thoughtful. "You disapprove of the Dark Side, yet you drew upon it. Why?"

Luke hunched down a little further. He already knew that had been a stupid mistake, made in desperation. And Vader's question was an odd mirroring of what Luke had wondered about him and Neap. Why did they stay on the Dark Side when it was obviously awful?

"I don't know," he said. "I guess I felt like I was out of other options."

"Ah."

Vader turned his attention back to piloting. His fortress was visible in the distance again, its tall shape jutting up from the cliffside with the ribbon of molten lava pouring through it. Around it, the escarpment flowed with wider channels of molten rock, other waterfalls, all connected in a burning, glowing parody of a river. Luke was lucky, he supposed, that he'd crashed onto solid rock and not something worse.

"It will not feel like this forever, my son," said Vader. "You are adaptable. You will learn to enjoy your position." He hesitated. "It will be better when you see the Imperial Palace-"

"Shut up," said Luke, with a sinking feeling. He hadn't even thought about the Imperial Palace yet. The last thing he wanted now was to go to Coruscant and let Emperor Tarkin gloat over him. Maybe he should fake sick. Maybe he could fool M4-

No, he wouldn't be able to fool M4, any more than he'd fooled Aunt Beru's discerning hand on his forehead when he hadn't wanted to go to school. And if he did talk his way out of dinner at the palace, he'd still have to go there eventually. He'd have to meet Tarkin eventually, because Tarkin was a part of Vader's life. If Luke was here forever, then there was no getting around it.

He could feel that Vader was perplexed, wanting to give comfort and utterly lost as to how to do so. Luke had no sympathy for him. Vader had created this problem all by himself.

"Emperor Tarkin," said Vader, "will be better able to convince you-"

"Shut _up._ "

Vader didn't speak again until they had landed.

*

M4 rushed to Luke immediately upon landing, and he nudged her away. "I'm fine," he lied.

"I'm really not sure about that, Master Luke. You _were_ just in a speeder accident. Did you know there's blood on you?"

Luke looked down at himself. His scrapes were shallow and had mostly scabbed over already, but his skin was smeared with dried blood and ashes and his limbs were starting to visibly bruise. Plus, M4 had warned him to come get her if anything broke the skin over his burns from yesterday. He was pretty sure at least one of the scrapes had done that.

He sighed, threading a hand into his hair, which probably only made his hair dirty. "I don't think it's as bad as it looks. Let me just wash off and then you can take a look at me, okay?"

"Sure thing, Master Luke. But if you take too long I'm gonna check on you. Deal?"

"Deal," said Luke.

He made his way to his guest room and into the shower, discarding his clothes on the floor. Luke wanted to stand in the shower broodingly for a long time, like one of the characters in those holovids, but the ingrained habits of a Tatooine boy took over and he found himself quickly, efficiently scrubbing himself for fear the water would run out. It only took a few minutes to get the worst of the dirt off, and when he looked down at himself afterwards, he actually didn't look terrible.

He got out, patted his hair dry, wrapped himself in one of those black and scarlet towels, and curled up on the bed. He didn't want to call M4 in just yet. He wanted a minute alone.

Luke still didn't feel clean.

He'd let the Dark Side into his head, out there. And he could still feel it seething. The anger, fear, and pain of Mustafar's air was under his skin now, an anguish that was partly his own legitimate distress and partly something else. Something cosmic, reflecting him, reflecting itself back into him. Luke could feel how much power there was in this state. It would take only a thought, and all the latent anger in the world would bend around him, the way it did for Vader. He didn't like it at all.

_Luke,_ said a voice, very faintly, in his ear.

Luke startled and looked up. It was Ben's voice, not Vader's. The sense of Ben was faraway, almost invisible, wrapped in many careful layers of protection, and it seemed to strain the old Jedi to get any sense of his presence through at all.

Luke was abruptly terrified. Ben could _see him_ like this. Ben, who'd warned him that everything all of them fought for would be lost.

"Ben?" he stammered, his lip quivering. "Ben, I'm sorry."

He reached for Ben's mind - that kind of mental movement was already becoming second nature - but he caught only a wisp.

_What you did today was foolish,_ Ben chided. _And disappointing. I warned you not to do this precise thing. But you harmed no one except yourself, and that's important. You can come back from this, Luke. Breathe._

Luke didn't want to admit how deep a relief that was. He'd begun to wonder if he'd be stuck on the Dark Side forever now, the same way he was stuck with Vader. He'd begun to wonder if that was why Vader and Neap stayed on the Dark Side - because they didn't have a choice. Because once it got into you, it could literally never leave.

"How-?" he managed.

_Just breathe. Slowly. Breathe in good air, clean air. Breathe the Dark Side out._

Luke tried that, slowing his breath down as much as he could. He imagined the Dark Side leaving his body through his lungs. It helped, but only minutely, and it was hard since the air around him was already full of Dark Side. He was going to need an awful lot of breaths before he fixed this.

"Ben," he murmured, "how am I going to get out of here?"

But the feeling of Ben's presence had already receded.

Luke took another of those deep breaths, and another. Then he fell onto his side, curled up tighter, and started to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vader looking out at luke while he flies off like "luke wtf this is at least the third time in the fic that someone's told you it's a bad idea to do something and you've immediately done it anyway, do you even hear words, wait why am i suddenly hearing myself speak in obi-wan's voice"
> 
> meanwhile tarkin thinks back to Playing With Fire and is like "ah, so he panicked and did expensive property damage in what was supposed to be pleasant family bonding time? yes, no need for a dna test, he's yours."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vader learns some new clinical terms, lashes out at his therapist, and discovers there will be more guests attending his family dinner than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew, so after that downer of a chapter we have another downer scene - I was initially going to put this and the initial landings/introductions on Coruscant into the same chapter, because the landings/introductions are much fluffier and would balance it out. BUT then the chapter ended up being really really long, so I've split it up after all.
> 
> CN choking I guess, plus a lot of, like, discussion of how trauma works in general terms

Vader had therapy again that evening. M4 had explained to him that they weren't going to have therapy every day; it would be emotionally intense and he would need breaks to digest what he'd learned. Twice a week was what she aimed for. But since Vader was going to Coruscant as soon as he got up tomorrow, and since he didn't know exactly how long he would stay, she'd agreed to squeeze in an extra session tonight.

He knew they mostly wouldn't spend today's session talking about Luke. There were other matters to address first - she'd asked him all those questions at the intake appointment so as to draw conclusions about his fitness for command, and about what she wanted to do from here, and they would need to discuss those things. But Vader was almost too preoccupied with Luke to settle down.

It had strained him near his limit letting Luke try to escape. He had wanted to grab Luke physically and prevent it. But Luke took after Vader - he needed to learn from experience. He wouldn't believe that escape was impossible until he'd tried it and failed. If he had not had the opportunity today, he would have snuck out and tried it some other time, when it would not be so easy for Vader to track where he had gone, and where help would not have come so quickly when he hurt himself.

Vader had stood with clenched fists in the hangar bay, tense beyond endurance, having to use all his strength to prevent himself from flying out there immediately and giving actual chase - which would have only have deepened Luke's panic and made it worse. Vader knew exactly how much worse this could have gone. He knew, better than anyone, what happened to a person when they fell in the wrong part of a lava field.

Still, in the end it had not gone that way. Luke had sustained only a few scrapes and bruises. And as for the effect on Luke's mood - well, Vader was trying not to think about that. It would pass, he hoped.

It wasn't as though there was another option. Returning Luke to the Rebels would kill him, in the end. Vader had tried to explain that to Luke in the speeder, but to no avail.

Vader wasn't sure he could live without Luke, either - without a son to occupy his attention, he might break down again the way he did on Exegol. But he had known better than to say _that_ part aloud.

"Hey there, Lord Vader," said M4, settling in to her padded bench across from him. "Ready for therapy?"

"Yes," Vader said. He did not look forward to this process, but it was necessary. "Have you reached a conclusion as to what is the matter with me?"

"Well, yes and no." M4 leaned back and made herself comfortable. "Formal diagnosis is a longer process. If that's something you want, we can pursue it as we go. But the intake questionnaire is more to get a sense of the landscape and what we should look at first. I'm going to be honest with you, Lord Vader - you meet the screening criteria for a _lot_ of different problems. Not the criteria that say you definitely have it, but the criteria that say we should probably look into it more. I think we talked about that already."

They had. Weeks ago, before he ever agreed to therapy, Vader had pressed M4 to list all the mental disorders she suspected he had. It had been a long list - at least one personality disorder, a major depression, an attention deficit, a lot of trauma, something involving dissociation. And that was before getting into the issue of the Dark Side itself, or the ghost. M4 hadn't known about the ghost before yesterday.

"But what I want to do first," M4 continued, "assuming you agree, Lord Vader, is to start taking baby steps to address the trauma part. Because in my expert opinion you have a _whopping_ case of complex post-traumatic stress disorder. If we can work on your trauma successfully, some of those other things might start to clear up on their own. Others won't, but it'll be easier to clearly address them at that point." She tilted her head in thought. "Um, before I go on - I know this is a term I've thrown around before, but has anybody explained to you what complex post-traumatic stress disorder _is?_ "

"No," said Vader, though it seemed obvious enough. He knew what the word _trauma_ meant, and the word _stress_ , and the word _complex._

"Well, short version, Lord Vader, you've spent most of your life in crappy situations that you didn't see a way to get out of. You were born a slave, and then you went right from that to training up to fight a war, and then you spent twenty years killing people for Lord Sidious. So, your brain pretty much adjusted as well as a human brain can to living in those ways. And that has some characteristic side effects, different from the side effects you'd have if the trauma was just one discrete bad thing. Getting upset over triggers, like that problem you used to have when you tried taking your armor off with Tarkin, that's the most famous kind of trauma symptom, but there are lots of others. Difficulty with emotional regulation in general. Problems with self-image and your sense of yourself as a person at all. Changes in impulse control and attention. And, especially, problems maintaining any stable interpersonal relationships. So what we want to do, basically, is start to repair those things."

Vader gave her a suspicious look. That was a long list of things to repair. "How?"

_Crappy situations that you didn't see a way to get out of_ \- no doubt Luke, miserable at being trapped in this fortress, would have described his own situation this way. Vader shifted uncomfortably. But this wasn't most of Luke's life - he had been here a few days, and soon enough he would be able to see the good in being a prince. Tarkin would be able to make him see that. It wasn't as though there was a better option.

Vader had sworn to himself, on the flight from Exegol to Vrogas Vas, that he would never harm his son. It had seemed so simple then.

"Well," said M4, "people've come up with a few different systems. But there's one common factor that gets worked on in every treatment style, and that's learning how to understand and handle the emotions that the trauma brings up for you."

"You think my problem is a lack of understanding of _emotions?_ " Vader said, distracted into scorn. He had thought that M4 knew him better than that.

"Pretty much, yeah," said M4. "It's counter-intuitive, but-"

"I am a Sith," Vader interrupted. "What do you think I do all day? My power comes from handling and channeling the very worst of emotions."

"Really, huh?" said M4, as if she didn't already know. "Which emotions?"

"All of them. All of the negative emotions." They had discussed this many times. "Fear. Anger. Hate. Suffering."

M4 tilted her head, and her voice became comically sweet. "Vulnerability?"

Vader recoiled.

"That is not an emotion," he said, after several seconds being too flabbergasted to speak.

"Isn't it?" Her head untilted by a fraction of an inch. "It's a feeling, right? It feels like something."

"I have no such feeling."

"Uh huh," said M4, in the diffident tone she used when she didn't believe him, but didn't want to argue. "What about guilt? Shame?"

"I work with those already." Some of Vader's greatest feats in the Force had drawn on his self-hate.

M4's head untilted all the way, and her voice, by the barest fraction, gentled. "Wanting to do better?"

"That is impossible," Vader snapped.

He wasn't sure why he felt his throat clog with emotion as he said it. Vader was already irrecoverably broken. Even his revelation on Exegol had included that. There was no _better._

"Okay," said M4. "So, I was meaning to talk about this too. It seems to me, based on what you said in the intake appointment, that a significant part of your trauma is a moral injury."

"A what?" said Vader. He knew those last two words individually, but they made no sense together.

She gestured didactically. "Moral injury is a kind of trauma you can get when you do something, or experience something, that goes very strongly against your moral sense of how the world should work. It's beyond just feeling guilty - it's guilt at a level that alters your entire sense of self. In your intake appointment, when I asked what was wrong, you started out by calling yourself a monster. You said one of your problems was a growing sense of remorse, and you said repeatedly that you had trouble living with yourself. That is a classic moral injury presentation. And in a way, in a case like yours, it's a good sign. If you were actually a monster for real - if you didn't _have_ moral values deep down - then you wouldn't be feeling this way."

Vader looked at her silently, disturbed. Admittedly he had said all those things, but there was something unpleasant about having them recited back to him. He felt very small all of a sudden, even as he remained aware of how he towered over her in his armor. It was as though the armor had become transparent to her.

"This isn't something we're going to deal with intensively right away," M4 assured him. "It's heavy stuff. There's a lot of groundwork to lay first. But eventually the goal with a moral injury is to get you to a point where you can talk about it. Not just by calling yourself names, but really talking, you know? The goal is that someday you'll feel ready to talk to a trusted person who shares your values, and tell them about the things you've done that went against those values, and be accepted by that person, as someone whose identity goes beyond just those things."

Vader shifted uncomfortably. "I already have a person who is unafraid of hearing of my crimes. He is my co-Emperor."

"Uh huh," said M4 again in that gently disbelieving tone. "It's good you have Tarkin, Lord Vader. I know Tarkin knows some of the really wild stuff you've done, and I know he's cool with it. But have you ever really sat down and told him _why_ you feel guilty? Not just what you did, but what moral values you have, and why the things you did go against them, and what you think should have happened instead? Do you know if he actually shares those values with you?"

Vader could not imagine a person who could do all of the things M4 was describing at once. Certainly not any person that Vader knew. "Then who do you believe I should speak to?"

M4 shook her head. "Don't get hung up on that. That's a later phase of the therapy anyway; you're not ready for it yet. But it doesn't have to be a person who exists. Some people have that talk with a higher power, or even a pretend version of someone who's not here right now. Like if it was someone you trusted from your old life who you wanted to say sorry to-"

Before Vader knew what he was doing he had lunged from his seat.

"They would _never_ take me back," he growled. His fist was around her metal throat; he was holding her up by it. This was not nearly as lethal for droids as for humans, but it was reflex, instinct.

"Ow." M4 squirmed in his grasp. Droids of her model didn't have pain receptors, but they had a proper sense of indignity when harmed. "That was just one idea, Lord Vader. It definitely doesn't have to be that one. Do you think this is an appropriate response to what I said?"

"They could not ever forgive me," Vader insisted. It was intolerable, even for a moment, to think otherwise. "Not even if they lived. I am dead to them."

M4 looked up at him in something like puzzlement. He could not truly feel her emotions, her fear. This would have been much more satisfying if she was human. "You sure about that, Lord Vader? Not even in your imagination?"

An image came unbidden to his mind, and every part of him clenched against it. Ahsoka, in the temple on Malachor, staring stricken with pity into his unmasked eye. _I won't leave you. Not this time._

But she was lying, it was a _lie;_ he already knew that Ahsoka had left. It was the mealy-mouthed _white_ kind of lie that the Light Side used to soften its worst blows. Like Obi-Wan, telling Vader he'd loved him, as he left him to burn. Like Padmé, pretending they could run away and raise Luke together, when they both knew she'd already turned against him. They'd all _lied-_

And now they all were dead.

He stumbled back, letting go of M4, who dropped hard back down onto her bench. His hand was shaking.

M4 rubbed at her neck in annoyance. "It's okay if the answer is 'no.' I was just asking."

"No," he said, and his tongue was so thick in his rotten mouth, he could barely speak. "Never."

*

The appointment concluded with a few more halting statements about plans, but it was clear that M4 wanted to leave, and Vader let her do so. That gave him some time to kill before she came back to put him in his tank for the night. He felt upset and restless, and he knew that bothering Luke again tonight would only make things worse. So he found himself going to his comms panel and calling Tarkin, just on the off chance Tarkin was free. They hadn't had much chance to talk since that call yesterday morning, when Tarkin proposed the dinner.

It was far more soothing than he wanted to admit when the call went through, and Tarkin's familiar form - wrapped in that new version of his Imperial robes, circlet glinting on his brow - appeared before him. Vader had an irrational urge to grab him through the comm connection, press him close like a life preserver. Everything made more sense when Tarkin was here.

"Vader," said Tarkin with one of his small smiles. "It's good to see you. Everything's proceeding on schedule for tomorrow. I can't talk long, but how are things going?"

"Not well," Vader said.

"Luke is still recalicitrant, I take it?"

"Yes," said Vader, because that was easier than explaining everything else, and it was mostly correct. "His mood has worsened instead of improving."

Tarkin raised an eyebrow. "Did anything trigger that in particular?"

"He found out that he cannot escape. Even if he does, I will be able to sense him in the Force now."

"Ah." Tarkin brought a knuckle to his lips in his usual thoughtful gesture. "The Inquisitor trick."

"Worse."

"No one was harmed in the escape attempt, I trust?"

Vader glowered. He had not told Tarkin that there was an attempt, but Tarkin was clever as always, and there were only so many ways a boy like Luke could have found out that escape would be fruitless. "Not badly."

"Well, then, give him some space to process, and we'll see if we can cheer him up tomorrow, shall we? Oh, and I should tell you one other thing. Since this is a dinner for the immediate Imperial family, I took the liberty of inviting Garoche and Rivoche."

Vader tilted his head, diverted. "I thought they were no longer speaking to you." Vader had never even met them.

"Yes, well, when they were told they could be a Prince and Princess, they changed their minds. They've accepted. I thought it might be helpful for Luke to meet potential step-siblings, as it were, rather than taking the meal alone with us."

Vader was amused. Tarkin had taken his family's break-up relatively well, by Vader's standards. He had buried his longing for them in work and in other relationships, and he had kept a stiff upper lip. But apparently as soon as Vader had tried to reconcile with _his_ son, Tarkin had decided to copy him.

"That is acceptable," he said. Vader didn't know what sort of people Tarkin's children were, or if they would do even a single thing to help Luke, but they could hardly make it _worse._

"I was also thinking," Tarkin said more delicately, "of inviting Natasi. Would you be comfortable with that?"

"I thought you said it was an event for the immediate family."

Tarkin made a careless gesture. "She technically does live with me here at the palace, and she's been managing half of our war of succession for us. The only reason no one's offered her a courtesy title as an Imperial consort is that she'd rather be a Grand Admiral. And it's one more person closer to Luke's age. But it's up to you; I don't want to cause any unnecessary tension."

Vader found that he did not mind. At first, when Daala returned from the Maw Cluster, Vader had been jealous. He had agreed that Tarkin could be with her again, but at first he had barely been able to tolerate her. But as they worked together to thwart the cultists on Exegol, Vader had developed a grudging respect for the young Grand Admiral. She was talented at her job, even if nepotism from Tarkin was a part of how she'd gotten there. Her destructive drive, and her sense of thwarted ambition, reminded him of himself. All in all, Vader was no longer distressed by Daala's presence.

Unfortunately the same could not be said in the other direction. Daala had dealt respectfully with Vader at first, but she'd quickly grown to view him as a dangerous loose cannon. And his behavior on the Exegol mission hadn't helped matters. He'd cornered her at one point, when she delivered a message to his quarters, and asked her a confusing and distressing series of questions about herself and Tarkin, in a vain attempt to figure out where Palpatine's influence lay hidden in them all. And then, of course, he'd tried to trick her into killing him. He'd apologized - something Vader rarely did for anyone - but she hadn't accepted it.

"If you want no unnecessary tension," said Vader, "then Daala is the one you should ask. I will allow her, but I do not think she will be comfortable in my presence."

"Well, perhaps we'll fix that. Perhaps we can fix all the things." Tarkin gave a quick smile in Vader's direction. "I do have to go. But I'll see you tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out again to SpookySpaghetties, who had a talk with me about trauma treatment and cognitive processing which inadvertently blew this whole scene (and Vader's subsequent arc in the second half of this story) wide open for me. WHEE.
> 
> I am NOT any kind of mental health care worker, but [moral injury](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moral_injury) (and [complex PTSD](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Complex_post-traumatic_stress_disorder)) are real things.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luke meets his new stepfather, step-siblings, and whatever Natasi Daala is; everyone gets dressed up; Tarkin learns an important bit of family news, as well as a lot of unimportant ones; and Daala would really, *really* like to not be in this story, thanks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iiiiiiiiit's the chapter you've all been waiting for (or, at least, the beginning of that sequence of chapters)
> 
> Rivoche Tarkin is one of the most fun Star Wars minor character concepts I ever saw but, according to the Wookieepedia, she only actually appears in some Legends RPG supplements and like 1 short story. So rather than tracking down those sources I've just taken the concept and run with it in my own direction, which often diverges from the information in the Wookiee, just as it does for the other Tarkin-adjacent characters I've yoinked from there; but I hope she'll still be recognizable.
> 
> Garoche Tarkin, on the other hand, well, none of the info about him in the Wookieepedia worked at ALL (he is supposed to be dead by this point, for one thing, and he's also supposed to have a history with Vader in a way which super doesn't work with the rest of my timeline) so I've basically just taken his name and vague appearance and slapped them onto an OC. Which is why his name doesn't appear in the tags.
> 
> In Legends Rivoche is Luke's age, and Garoche is MUCH older - in fact, they're not even really alive at the same time, and I'm not sure the Legends authors responsible for both characters were aware of each other - but I've adjusted both their ages to more of a middle area so that they can do the tag-team step-sibling thing more plausibly.
> 
> Both of them being [REDACTED], however, is taken directly from Legends.
> 
> Also, Content Note: there will be some discussion of the creepy age difference between Tarkin and Daala in this chapter, but shortish, and nothing graphic.

Tarkin, as usual, had a busy morning. He spent the time before lunch attending a last few important work meetings while also messaging back and forth with the palace servants who were setting this visit up, and then there was a working lunch with the COMPNOR team, and then all too soon it was time to receive his visitors. He'd wisely arranged for Garoche and Rivoche to arrive about an hour before Luke and Vader did; each of these meetings would take finesse and emotional attention, and Tarkin preferred to space them out.

So he found himself waiting on the landing pad near the palace in the early afternoon light, dressed in his full Imperial regalia with his Royal Guards and aides beside him, clasping his hands behind his back to hide how his nails nervously dug into his palms. Trying to feel like a splendid dignitary in these absurd robes. An embodiment of harsh-but-fair authority. Someone any reasonable person would be happy to have as a father.

The breeze blew, cold and mocking, against his face.

It took a much longer span of time than he would have liked before the civilian shuttle carrying his children passed the necessary clearances, descended from the sky, and came to a landing in front of him. He stood extra-straight as the loading ramp extended in its usual cloud of steam.

Garoche, his firstborn son, was the one who stepped out first.

Tarkin should stop thinking of them as children, he supposed. Even before the divorce, they'd been adults. Now they were both in their thirties - Garoche was nearly forty now. He had dressed impeccably, in a dark suit that echoed military fashions, and he carried himself ramrod-straight. Garoche _had_ been in the military, before tiring of it and moving into commerce. He had the clear blue-gray eyes and sharp cheekbones that ran in the family, but a stockier build and a squarer jaw, courtesy of Thalassa's side.

"Father," said Garoche in greeting, holding Tarkin's gaze without even an incline of his head. And then he efficiently moved into the precise correct posture, down on one knee, head bowed. Genuflecting to his Emperor.

Tarkin could not help but smile.

Next was Rivoche, of course, and Tarkin watched with keen interest as she minced out of the shuttle after her brother. Her gait was steady, despite a pair of very impractical heels. He thought he'd taught her better than that - it would be no good trying to run from a predator in those things. Rivoche was eight years younger than Garoche, and she had dressed herself as lavishly as she no doubt felt a princess should, in a long draping dress of orange and fuschia, matching jewelry, and an elaborate pinned-up hairstyle with strings of fuschia beads hanging down. Rivoche had Tarkin's slender build and narrow face, and her bearing was as straight, proud, and controlled as any scion of their family. She, too, settled down on one knee.

Rivoche wasn't technically Tarkin's daughter; biologically she was his niece, the son of his late brother Gideon. But when Gideon and his wife died, Tarkin had taken Rivoche in and raised her as his own. Garoche had been a dutiful son, but Rivoche, in the wake of her real father's death, was often violently at odds with the rest of the family. Preparatory school had eventually mellowed her, but she'd never fully gotten along either with Tarkin or with Garoche - until the divorce, which had appeared to unite both step-siblings against a common foe.

Tarkin had thought, perhaps, that Garoche would accept his invitation and Rivoche would not. He was extremely pleased to see that he'd been wrong.

"Rise," he said, beckoning. "Welcome to the Imperial Palace, Prince Garoche. Princess Rivoche."

They both rose to their feet in unison and approached him - Garoche, again, going first. Tarkin held out his arms, and his son took them in a rather stiff but tolerable embrace. "Father," he said.

Rivoche approached next, taking Tarkin's arms more lightly and formally kissing him on both cheeks. "Daddy," she said, with polite insincerity. "It's so good to see you again. Congratulations on the new position."

"Likewise." He turned and motioned them forward, and the three began to walk towards the palace. There was a shuttle-sized landing pad directly on top of the Imperial Palace, but it was only for the Emperors themselves. Other important officials had to use this one, which stood a couple of hundred feet away in the Palace's shadow, accessible via a well-guarded bridge. "How have you been? It's been an abominably long time."

"We've been well," said Garoche, following him briskly. "I'm sure Mother told you I'm still in the shipping business. It's been profitable; I wonder if you've seen the trade numbers between our sector and the Expansion Region?"

"Vaguely, yes. And how is Aliette?"

In Garoche's early twenties, when Tarkin and Thalassa had picked out a suitable wife for him - a lovely, poised young thing from a merchant family on Sullust, with a shock of long blonde hair. The union had been of political benefit to both families, and the bride and groom had seemed to get on well enough. But Aliette had stopped returning Tarkin's calls at the precise time Garoche did. Garoche's career change had occurred shortly afterward. It was a poor choice, in Tarkin's opinion, giving up the glory of battle for mere money - but there were worse ways for a son to rebel.

"She's well." Garoche glanced sideways at him. "Actually, it's not public knowledge yet, but after a great deal of medical effort, it appears we are finally expecting a daughter."

"A daughter?" Tarkin repeated, suppressing a much stronger expression of delight. A _grandchild!_ After all this time. "How wonderful. When I next invite you here, you'll have to bring them both. The child will be a princess, too, of course."

"Mother is _terribly_ put out that you didn't invite her," Rivoche added, slipping her arm into Garoche's to walk at his side. "She wouldn't let us hear the end of it. I promised her I'd tell you how she felt about it, and now I have, so now that's out of the way and we can actually enjoy the evening."

Tarkin smiled slightly. "She's well?"

"You'd have to ask her that yourself," Rivoche said primly.

They'd made it most of the way across the bridge by this time, and the palace itself loomed, with its grand pyrimidal structure and its high towers. "And you? You've still got that dreadful job as a reporter, I hear?" Tarkin loathed reporters, but Rivoche had always been fascinated by the glitz and artifice of the HoloNet and had set her goals accordingly.

"On the contrary, I'm now the Imperial HoloNet's chief news and propaganda strategist for the entire Outer Rim. I keep media communications on-message, coordinate to ensure that Imperial censorship regulations are followed, and develop entertainment programs to keep the populace emotionally invested in the project of Empire. The past few months have been busy; after Emperor Palpatine's unexpected death and your peaceful transition of power, we've worked overtime to ensure the right message gets out." There was a slight but unmistakable irony in her voice. Everyone who mattered knew that Vader and Tarkin had killed Palpatine, but it was neither polite nor especially legal to say so out loud. "And I got the position all by myself. You should thank me, actually."

Tarkin glanced back at her with a matching irony. "I appreciate your efforts. Tonight is strictly off the record, of course. A private function for only the Imperial Family."

"Of course, Daddy."

They made it in through the gates of the palace, into its entrance halls set with pitch-black stone, and he waved the crowd of guards and aides away. A few remained at the edges of the room, just in case one of the royalty in attendance should need anything, but they kept enough distance to allow a semblance of privacy. "I don't suppose you've managed to settle down respectably the way Garoche has."

He knew she hadn't. Tarkin and Thalassa had attempted to find a husband for Rivoche when she came of age, but she had refused each suitor with a vehemence that bordered on violence, no matter how attractive and well-connected or how suited to her own apparent preferences. And before Tarkin could really put his foot down about that, his own divorce had derailed everything. Nowadays Rivoche did not lack for partners, regardless of gender or species - the rumors said she was never seen with the same piece of arm candy twice.

"Of course not, Daddy. You know how I feel about that. But I'm told you've found an unorthodox arrangement of your own." Rivoche smiled sharply, eyes bright, looking into the darkness of the corridor as if it held intriguing mysteries. "I am _dying_ to meet Emperor Vader. You don't suppose we'll actually die, do you?"

Tarkin returned her smile. In their attitudes to danger, at least, he and his errant daughter-niece were in agreement. "It's unlikely, but I wouldn't recommend provoking him."

"And this new addition to the family that you mentioned-" said Garoche, but he broke off. They'd turned a corner into the banquet hall, a cavernous room gilt with silver and alabaster, brightening the palace's black stone to resemble a star-strewn night sky. A single table, big enough for six or eight, had been prepared - not set with dishes yet, it was still far too early for that, but with glittering silver tablecloths and napkins and a centerpiece and so on. In addition to the guards and servants, a single figure waited for them, standing stern and straight at the table's foot.

Natasi Daala had been dubious about attending this evening; she didn't like Vader, and she had mixed feelings about the rest of Tarkin's family. But she had agreed to attend because of Luke. She and Tarkin saw eye to eye about that, at least: Luke was a potential threat, and it was better to meet the threat and assess it than to hide.

Once she'd agreed to attend, she'd made the rest of her preparations on her own initiative, finding a stylist among the servants to work with her hair and her face, and digging an elaborate green gown out of her closet. The gown was new to Tarkin, but she'd apparently bought it several weeks ago, as soon as she returned from the Maw - enchanted by the thought, after three years of very isolated duties, of having an outfit that wasn't a uniform. The result was stunning. The gown brought out the piercing green of her eyes, exposed her delicate neck and her leanly muscular shoulders, narrowed at the waist only to flare out into a queenly train. The stylist had subtly softened her stern features, and loosed her brilliant red hair to spill elegantly down her back in molten waves. Pale jewels glittered at her hands and her throat. Left to her own devices, Natasi preferred a more stripped-down, functional style, but she could clean up into a look like this when the occasion demanded. Now she looked very nearly like an Empress herself.

Garoche went silent at the sight of her. Rivoche fixed her face into a thin, sarcastic smile. "Grand Admiral Daala. My _favorite_ person."

Natasi gave Rivoche exactly one second of her most unimpressed stare, before bending into a precisely correct, polite nod of deference. "Princess Rivoche. Prince Garoche. It's good to meet you."

Rivoche looked at Tarkin. "I thought you'd said this was a private dinner for only the Imperial Family. My mistake."

"I am the Emperor, my dear," said Tarkin. "The Imperial Family is what I say it is, and you'll be polite about it."

Garoche looked studiously into the distance and pretended to ignore all three of them.

Rivoche looked between Tarkin and Daala with the eye of a woman who'd produced hundreds of celebrity gossip features before and was itching for another one. "Are the three of you all in a relationship together, then? Or only-"

"No," Natasi said shortly, before Tarkin could formulate a gentler reply.

"Huh," said Rivoche, narrowing her eyes.

Tarkin knew why both of his children resented Natasi. She hadn't been the actual reason why his marriage to Thalassa broke up; affairs were commonplace in arranged unions like theirs, so much so that people barely bothered hiding them. But Thalassa's main complaint was that Tarkin neglected her and the children in favor of his work. The fact that he'd been intensely involved in an affair _at_ work had added insult to injury. Doubly so when it became a public scandal, and Tarkin had refused to throw Natasi to the wolves just to soothe his wife's ego. Hence the names that Thalassa called Natasi to Tarkin's face, and the worse ones she undoubtely used behind his back.

But Tarkin was the Emperor now. Words like _homewrecker_ were irrelevant, because his home was what he said it was, and all the people he wanted to be there would be there. At long last, he actually _had_ that power.

"Vader and his son will be here within the hour," he said, redirecting them all. "Until that time, I thought I might show you to where you'll be staying for the night. Drinks might be in order as well."

He beckoned, and Garoche and Rivoche followed him back out of the banquet hall, with Natasi trailing behind.

"His son," Rivoche repeated - intrigued enough, he noted, to have let go of the issue of Daala. For all her intransigence, Rivoche wasn't as difficult to control as she thought she was. "How exactly does that work, Emperor Vader and a son?"

Garoche had fallen right back into step beside her. "Surely you don't need the birds-and-the-bees talk over again at your age, Riv."

"Oh, shut up. You know what I'm asking."

"I'll explain," said Tarkin as he led them along. "It's an interesting story, actually."

It pleased him so very much, the way they followed and listened. Of course this was a dangerous undertaking. But Tarkin was getting all the people who mattered to him together under one palatial roof, and he was going to do it _his_ way.

*

Luke had spent the evening sulking, the nighttime tossing and turning, and the morning sulking some more. Piett had blandly asked at breakfast if there was anything he needed, and Luke had shaken his head. He needed not to have ever come to this fortress, but Piett couldn't do that for him. The anger and grief of being trapped here had eased overnight, but in their place was a resigned dullness that almost felt worse.

Vader insisted that Luke should wear a full outfit today, jacket and gloves and cape and all. Luke hadn't had the energy to argue. He'd dressed as ordered and then taken a long look at himself in the mirror. He looked like some rich Imperial lackey from a vid - a fictional vid, the kind with ballroom scenes and romances and complicated intrigue. His jacket and trousers were a dark red with gold piping, and his cape was the same red, with a black lining; his inner tunic was gold, and his gloves black. His face was wan, the edges of a few bandages visible. His hair, tousled and straw-colored, looked dull compared to the gilt of his jacket. Everything looked dull.

He sulked all through the long shuttle ride to Coruscant.

There was one good thing about being on a shuttle again: it meant they weren't on Mustafar anymore. There was no longer a whole planet of Dark Side around them. Instead, there was the swirl of hyperspace. Luke cautiously extended his senses, curious if hyperspace was light or dark, but it didn't feel like either one. Hyperspace felt, not empty, but _blank_. Like a datascreen on standby, present and functional but not bothering to do anything yet that would matter to a human.

Luke closed his eyes and spent an hour or two doing that breathing exercise. Breathing in blankness. Breathing the Dark Side out.

The little amount of darkness that he'd had in his body was so small, really, compared to the vastness of the galaxy around him. He hadn't been so badly corrupted. Not compared to Vader, beside him, who seethed with another kind of darkness. But even when he no longer felt the Dark Side's rage, Luke didn't feel good at all.

"Have I informed you who else is attending this dinner?" Vader asked at length.

Luke shook his head, too exhausted to care. "There's other people?"

"Emperor Tarkin has invited his own children, Prince Garoche and Princess Rivoche."

"I didn't know he had any children. What are they like?"

"I do not know. I have never met them."

Luke gave Vader a puzzled look.

"They were estranged from their father," said Vader. "But now that he is an Emperor, they have changed their minds."

"Great," said Luke, settling back. That sounded just about like the Imperials he'd met. No real friendships, only _status._ He would have nothing in common with them.

"Grand Admiral Daala is also invited," said Vader.

Luke turned to look at Vader again. He _had_ heard of Grand Admiral Daala. Her sudden reappearance and promotion, as soon as Vader and Tarkin became Emperors, had raised eyebrows. Luke had missed the scandal the first time around, but from Rebel gossip he'd belatedly learned who Daala was, and why there'd been a scandal, and how she'd seemed to vanish from the galaxy completely as soon as her affair with Tarkin became public. Some Rebels had wondered if Tarkin had killed her - nobody would put that past Tarkin - but apparently he'd just hidden her somewhere.

The most concerning thing about the rumors, though, was Daala's age. When she and Tarkin first got together, she'd been younger than Luke. A legal adult, but only barely. Tarkin had already been a middle-aged Grand Moff and also her commanding officer. Even now that she was older, even now that she'd led military campaigns directly against the Rebels, some of the older Rebels reacted to her with a pitying frown and a shake of their heads. Especially some of the women, like Mon Mothma. Who knew, those older Rebels said, how much choice she'd really had?

"Um," said Luke, trying to figure out a way to phrase his concerns. "Is she, um... is she okay?"

"I have not seen her in several days," said Vader, "but I assume so. She is a competent officer."

That sounded like faint praise. Luke remembered the other thing that made this awkward - Daala and Vader were both in a relationship with the same man. Luke had never heard of polyamory on Tatooine, but he'd learned that some of the Rebels did things that way, so it made sense if some Imperials did too. He still had trouble really getting his head around it. But then, when it came to dating, Luke still felt that way about a lot of things.

"How is it," said Luke, a bit of his curiosity returning. "With, um - with both of you dating Emperor Tarkin? Do you get along with her okay?"

"That depends which of us you ask." Vader looked out into the blur of hyperspace. "I have grown to understand her. She, however, wishes me dead." Luke made what must have been an alarmed face, and Vader looked back at him. "It is no concern. I am well accustomed to the people around me wishing that."

Luke didn't know what to say to that at all.

Vader had brought vids and proper snacks with him this time, and Luke listlessly watched one of Emperor Tarkin's favorite suspense thrillers - something about the Clone Wars, a team of Republic commandoes tasked with retrieving a Separatist weapon that could melt all the living beings in an area. Not destroying the weapon, Luke noted, just retrieving it so it wasn't in the wrong hands. Vader kept interrupting and pointing out historical inaccuracies. It passed the time.

They dropped out of hyperspace eventually, and Luke pressed his nose to the shuttle's window to take the planet in. He'd never been to a world like Coruscant before. It was so busy - with buildings, with traffic, with people and droids of all kinds. It was chaos. Luke still felt sulky, but he thought maybe he liked this planet.

The shuttle didn't drop all the way down into that interesting chaos, but into a special lane where it descended towards a single, huge, grand building. The Imperial Palace was bigger than any building Luke had been in before, even bigger than the ruined temple on Yavin IV where the Rebels used to have their base, with multiple towers jutting up out of it. There was a landing pad just big enough for the shuttle and a couple of its escorting TIEs, right in the center.

Luke swallowed hard. He knew what he needed to do.

The shuttle landed, and he followed his father down the ramp, with gritted teeth, to greet Emperor Tarkin.

Tarkin was waiting for them already at the base of the ramp; several younger, richly-dressed people stood just behind him, but they all dropped to one knee when they saw Vader looming behind Luke. Tarkin looked the way he'd looked in all the news broadcasts since the coup. He'd traded in the stiff gray Grand Moff's uniform for a kingly set of robes and a circlet, but it was still mostly gray. And his face was the same, narrow and sunken, with a thin smile and an alert gaze that reminded Luke of one of Tatooine's big predatory birds. Except birds weren't bad; even when they ate people's animals, it was just because birds needed to eat. They couldn't help being the way that they were. Emperor Tarkin had _decided_ to be Emperor Tarkin, and Luke didn't like him at all.

Luke came to a halt at the bottom of the ramp and abruptly realized he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now. Bow? Kneel the way those other people were kneeling? Were princes supposed to kneel? Luke had never knelt for Vader. And it wasn't like Emperor Tarkin _deserved_ it.

The air on the platform was chilly, and not very clean. Even from the top of the palace Luke could smell nebulous city smells, vehicle exhaust and smoke and trash.

"Hi," said Luke, after an uncertain pause.

He felt the other people behind Tarkin mentally cringing at his manners, but Tarkin only gave him an appraising look, and then beckoned. "Prince Luke. Welcome to the Imperial Palace. I'm told you're unaccustomed to these echelons of society, but we'll begin to fix that now. The correct term of address is 'Your Highness.'" He spoke with the colonial accent that Luke remembered from all the news broadcasts. It was a lot like high-class Core World speech, but the vowels were loftier, and the r's dramatically rolled. He made another gesture as he spoke, and the people behind him rose back to their feet.

Luke obediently took a step forward. "Pleased to meet you, Your Highness," he said coldly.

"And the correct gesture, upon entering an Emperor's presence, is to kneel."

Luke looked him in the eye. "I'd rather not, thanks."

He wasn't sure what possessed him - the same fey, indifferent mood he'd been in when he needled Vader about his treason against Palpatine. Would Tarkin hurt him, punish him for being insubordinate? Maybe. He didn't care.

Luke didn't have a good sense of Tarkin's mind yet. But he felt that mind do _something_ \- offense, calculation, amusement, he didn't know. Tarkin's face betrayed nothing at all, just the same aloof sternness as in all the broadcasts. "Why not?"

"Because I don't bow down to tyrants, Your Highness."

Tarkin looked up, over Luke's head, at Vader. Amused, or faking amusement. "Well, Vader, I can see why you were having trouble with him. But how are _you?_ "

He walked straight past Luke to the space beside him, where Vader stood, and he took Vader's hands. Vader's gloved hands were larger than Tarkin's, and when they clasped hands, Tarkin's long fingers seemed to almost disappear, enveloped in black.

"I am well enough," said Vader.

Luke abruptly didn't know where to look. They weren't doing anything inappropriate - just standing close together, holding hands, looking into each other's eyes. He'd already known Vader and Tarkin were in a relationship. But he could _see_ it now, and much as he tried to avoid it he could sense his father's mind. There was actual tenderness here. For some god-awful, unfathomable reason, Luke's father loved this man.

And, judging by the frank admiration in his face, Tarkin felt the same way.

"But your son seems worse for wear." Tarkin was still talking to Vader, but he hadn't strayed more than an arm's length away from Luke, and he casually reached out and took Luke's chin to inspect him, like if he was some inanimate object Vader had brought with him. "What's that bandage for? And those burns?"

Luke took a sharp step back. He didn't want Tarkin physically fussing over him. Leia had told him how this man had pinched her cheek, called her _charming,_ in the same breath as telling her she was slated for execution.

_I told him what I thought of him,_ Leia had said - without elaborating - but Luke didn't have Leia's sharp wit. When he tried to come up with anything like what _she'd_ say, his mind went blank. He really missed her.

"I lost a fight with some droids," he said instead, glaring, although training remotes weren't really droids. "And then I crashed a speeder."

"Ah," said Tarkin, glancing up at Vader. "So he takes after you."

"I do not know what you mean," said Vader, who definitely did.

"I'm surprised you gave him a speeder."

"I did not voluntarily give it."

Tarkin eyed Luke in what was definitely amusement now. "Well, we'll keep you away from any dangerous droids or tempting vehicles while you're here. This way." He gestured for Luke to follow as he returned to the small clump of younger people waiting for him at the edge of the landing pad. Younger than Tarkin, at least - they were all visibly older than Luke. "These are your new step-siblings, Prince Garoche and Princess Rivoche. Garoche, Rivoche, allow me to introduce Prince Luke."

"I'm not a prince," Luke muttered, but he was dressed like one, and he was being steered around the Imperial Palace like one, and his protests had started to ring hollow even to his own ears. He was stuck with these people whether he liked it or not. Did it matter if he didn't call himself what they did?

He looked at the two people Tarkin had indicated. They both had Tarkin's weird, jagged cheekbones. Garoche looked like a younger, more muscular copy of his father - he was about forty, and he wore a fancy business suit. Rivoche was tall and thin and in her early thirties, with a narrow jaw like Tarkin's, and she was wrapped in a lavish, floor-length pink-and-orange gown. If Luke looked like a rich Imperial lackey from a trashy holovid, Rivoche looked like one of the high society ladies who might have flocked around him. Not the vid's main female character, but one of her glamorous, trash-talking, backstabbing rivals. She looked at him with a strangely keen, clinical interest.

Rivoche was the one who stepped forward first. "Prince Luke," she cooed, attempting to air-kiss him on the cheek; he dodged away. She spoke with the same colonial accent as Tarkin. "I have heard _so_ much about you in the past hour."

"It's good to meet you," said Garoche in an identical accent, stepping up after her and holding out a more businesslike hand to shake. Luke reluctantly, briefly took it.

"Pleased to meet you too," he mumbled, in a tone that could not have been convincing.

"And this is Grand Admiral Daala," Tarkin continued smoothly, gesturing to the last of the richly dressed Imperials present. Luke looked at her uncomfortably; he wasn't sure how he was supposed to react.

In all of the gossip about Daala, Luke had never been told what she looked like. She was pretty, but she didn't look anything like the rest of Tarkin's family - her face was a classic oval, and her hair bright red. She was dressed like another princess, in a green gown as elaborate as Rivoche's, but she stood ramrod straight and expressionless as she took Luke in. He recognized it right away - the bearing of a soldier. Tarkin and his son had it, too, but they at least relaxed their faces a little.

She was older than Luke, at least. She looked about Rivoche's age, maybe a little younger. That was still pretty creepy, but it could have been worse.

"Hi," Luke said, impulsively, offering her his hand. He'd made friends with Captain Piett already; he could deal with Imperial officers.

Daala glanced at his hand without moving a single muscle in her face. Even her lips barely moved as she spoke. "Hi, Your Highness. I don't shake hands with terrorists."

Tarkin shot her a warning look. Rivoche and Garoche, behind his back, exchanged a more ambiguous glance.

Luke, to his own surprise, smiled. Somehow, in a room full of sly Imperials who wanted to smile through their teeth and pretend Luke was one of them now, Daala's attitude was like fresh air. He was glad she was here.

Before he could figure out anything coherent to say, Vader stepped forward, his breath echoing out across the platform. "Might I remind you, Grand Admiral, that this is my son?"

Daala gave Vader a look which conveyed with perfect clarity that she'd never forgotten. Luke looked between them, trying to figure out what _that_ was about. Daala might wish Vader dead, but she didn't seem especially afraid of him. Not compared to Piett and those servants at the fortress.

"For that matter," Tarkin said, turning blithely to Garoche and Rivoche, "I don't believe the two of you have been properly introduced to Emperor Vader. Vader, may I introduce my children?"

"Your Highness," said Rivoche, instantly diverted into a deep curtsy in Vader's direction. "It's such an honor to meet you."  
  


"Your Highness," said Garoche, a split second later, with a formal bow.

"Prince," Vader said, curtly acknowledging them both. "Princess."

"Do try not to strangle them; they're important to me." Tarkin turned toward the palace itself. There was a door near the landing platform which opened when he moved toward it. The inside of the palace looked strange, Luke thought: all he could see from here was a stone corridor painted jet black. "Now let's begin with our palace tour, shall we? We'll have a guided walk through the public areas and the rooms in which we'll be entertained, and there will be drinks available, followed by dinner and a relaxed evening. Tomorrow you'll have free run tomorrow of the Federal District - with a guide and several guards in your case, Luke, but you'll find there's a great deal in this part of Coruscant to see and do. Which reminds me - I also thought this might be a good time for that talk you were planning to have with Architect Leffe..."

He kept talking as he led the group indoors. His children and Daala followed him without hesitation. Vader paused and gave Luke a look - wondering, probably, if Luke would refuse to go in.

Luke could throw any number of tantrums, really, any time he wanted to. And none of it would matter, because he would still have to be here. Vader himself would make sure of it.

So he'd better focus on finding a kind of tantrum that would _mean_ something.

Luke grit his teeth, and he followed the Emperors into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanna thank y'all who have read this far because this fic has been really all over the map.
> 
> also just a heads up that there'll likely be an intermission here because i am prepping for kinktober - I hope I'll get another chapter in before october starts but not sure. and while i have a foolish image in my head of somehow working on kinktober and this fic both at once, it is... unlikely. if there are updates in october they'll at the very least be a lot slower.
> 
> BUT! it's only for that month and i am sure to come back swinging once november gets underway and i've recovered a bit.
> 
> anyway, peacing out here, thanks again, comments are love <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vader struggles to come to terms with having three children now; Luke keeps throwing tantrums; sensitive personal information gets revealed; everybody is horrible to the tour guide; and a small catfight breaks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! squeezed in another chapter before october after all!! (mostly because i had a bad day where doing my actual work or writing new kinktober content didn't feel possible, but revising and posting an already-extant draft _totally_ did. on the minus side i have lost all ability to figure out if these characters make any sense or not)
> 
> Content Note: _whew_ we're having a lot of those mentions of slavery today

Here was what Emperor Wilhuff Tarkin had learned, in the past five minutes, about Luke Skywalker:

He was shorter than expected.

He was as prone to recalcitrant sulking as his father. He didn't seem as _violent_ as his father - kill count in the millions nonwithstanding - but that was likely only a lack of experience and opportunity. Vader was used to physically threatening people to get his way. Luke was nineteen and small in stature and had never been surrounded by the kinds of sycophants on whom those tactics worked, and so he did not employ them.

He displayed great faith in his Rebel ideals, but he wasn't some swaggering hotshot. Nor was he a straight-backed, fire-eyed ideologue like Princess Leia. Instead, Luke resembled nothing so much as a lost, sullen child.

He couldn't have achieved such success with the Rebels if that was always how he comported himself. Tarkin rather suspected that Vader had broken him. Vader had insisted that none of them were allowed to harm Luke, but Vader didn't always think clearly about his own actions. He'd kidnapped this Force-sensitive boy, trapped him near a powerful Dark Side node, and thwarted his attempt at escaping. Rebels feared and hated Darth Vader for many excellent reasons, and finding out mid-kidnapping that Vader was his biological father would likely not have been much reassurance.

But Vader _needed_ Luke, at least until his mental health was better. And Tarkin had promised to help out with that. If Vader, despite his own intentions, was an object of fear for his son, and if they weren't allowed to harness that fear deliberately, then that left Tarkin the role of the good cop.

Tarkin was not accustomed to that role, but he understood its rules and could rise to the challenge. Ply Luke with measured amounts of comfort, weather his bursts of temper with neither encouragement nor punishment; gently suggest that he could belong and be accepted here, whilst keeping him trapped and subject to Vader's demands. He'd come around soon enough. Luke was just a boy, after all; these first five minutes had already made that clear.

That was what Tarkin knew.

*

For the actual tour, Tarkin had commandeered a palace tour guide named Oloranti, whom he'd been told was the best at that job. She was fortyish, slender, and dark-skinned, with long hair elaborately tied to dangle down her back. She led their group along with a poised, erudite enthusiasm, explaining the history and importance of the objects in this room or that one, responding fluidly to the Imperial Family's questions and to the unspoken shifts in attention that betrayed where their interests lay. If she was nonplussed by the situation - suddenly having the personal attention of both Emperors, having to explain their own palace to them when they already lived there, to say nothing of Luke's mood - she knew better than to show it.

"-this is the Grand Anteroom," said Oloranti, as they came to a cavernous black room with a massive curved stair, abstract art hanging on the walls, the banisters and frames picked out in polished obsidian. Several Royal Guards, in their bright red masks and cloaks, stood at the sides. Tarkin had managed to find time, in these first few months of his reign, to change out Palpatine's art objects for a set from the treasury that better matched his own aesthetic - clean lines, severity, efficiency. He hadn't otherwise seen the need to remodel in the public areas. Palpatine had a reasonable sense of what the Imperial public wanted to see, and the most politic move was to keep a broad visual continuity between the old reign and the new one, while making a few well-placed, subtler changes to mark the palace as his own.

"Traditionally the tour begins out on the palace steps; visitors coming up those steps would enter here. Visitors seeking an audience with the Emperors often wait here on these couches until they are summoned to the throne room, through those doors." Oloranti gestured to a massive pair of double doors below the staircase. "Through these other doors, of course, there are routes to areas for public functions and for guests, and corridors leading in to some of the palace's more functional areas, such as the kitchens-"

"And the slaves?" Luke interrupted.

Tarkin turned his head and looked at Luke appraisingly. He noticed, in his peripheral vision, that Vader had made the same movement, as had most of the rest of the family. He had not considered that this would be one of Luke's complaints.

Slavery was legal in the Empire, but only for certain authorized purposes - mostly construction and mining projects - and only for certain non-human species. There were crime syndicates in backwaters like Tatooine that enslaved humans despite this. Tarkin did not know for sure what Vader's early background on Tatooine had been like, because Vader never talked about it. But he'd had his suspicions. The way Luke zeroed in on the topic so quickly would seem to confirm it.

Tarkin would have to handle this delicately.

"What slaves?" said Oloranti blandly.

"The people working in the kitchens here," said Luke. "Are they slaves?"

"Not at all," said Oloranti. Tarkin was pleased with her professionalism so far. A random civilian asking such questions might be removed from the premises, even arrested, but with a prince the situation was more delicate, and she had adjusted to that quickly. "All chefs and kitchen workers in the Imperial Palace are paid a salary by the Empire, as are our housekeepers, inventory workers, and other service positions. By nature, for someone pursuing a career as a servant, this is the most prestigious place to work in all the galaxy, and a servant without proven loyalties and credentials could not be trusted with the job. Positions are highly competitive and we have a continual surfeit of applicants."

Luke narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "But the Empire keeps slaves."

There was only the faintest hint of strain in Oloranti's smile. "We employ involuntary labor for certain essential projects, but such laborers are members of non-sentient species, and far from this sector. Would you like to continue to the ballroom, Your Highness?"

She began to move in that direction, but Luke had planted himself stubbornly in the middle of the room. "Which species are those?"

"I'm sorry, Your Highness?" said Oloranti.

"The non-sentient ones."

"It's a word with a clear definition," Rivoche pointed out, but no one was listening to her. "I'm not sure what's hard to understand."

"Son." Vader moved forward, placing a placating hand on Luke's shoulder, which Luke shrugged away. It was an irritable, casual shrug; not like the sharp way he'd flinched from Tarkin's hand. In spite of all that Vader had done to him, Luke seemed more comfortable with his father than with Tarkin. "Let this go."

Luke stepped away from both of them, glaring. "Yeah, well, who decided what it means? I have a Wookiee friend-"

"Stop," said Vader, more firmly.

Luke took a step back, glaring at his father. There were a tense several seconds in which no one spoke.

"The full list of species in the galaxy and their respective classifications," Oloranti blurted into the silence, "is available in the legislative archives, Your Highness."

Tarkin's high opinion of her descended one notch.

But Luke wasn't looking at Oloranti anymore. "But the crime cartels enslave whoever they want to, right, father? What's the Empire ever done to stop that?"

Tarkin cleared his throat; it was past time for the good cop to do something. "The Empire is, in fact, significantly harsher on crime than the Republic. Sadly, it can't all be eliminated in a night. The Hutts and other undesirables have made certain gains during this period of unrest, but once the Rebellion is no longer distracting us, we'll be able to crack down." He beckoned, inviting Luke to follow Oloranti into the ballroom, and this time Luke reluctantly shuffled after them. "When I was your age, I was stamping out pirates in the Seswenna sector. Perhaps as an Imperial Prince you might like to assist such efforts."

Luke didn't seem to know what to say to that, as intended. They made it a whole five minutes before his next outburst.

*

"Didn't the Empire gas Anoat?" said Luke, looking at one of the artworks on display on the walls of the ballroom, which Oloranti had just said came from one of Anoat's finest abstract artists.

Tarkin opened his mouth to answer, but Rivoche, the propagandist, was quicker. "That was a tragic series of industrial accidents. Unfortunately Anoat was particularly careless following certain safety regulations-"

"That's not what I heard," Luke pressed.

"Dear me," said Rivoche blandly, "there is a lot of misinformation floating around these days."

"Didn't the Rebels massacre all the civilians at a sakoola blossom festival, Your Highness?" Natasi asked, bored and disgusted. "Or was that before you were old enough to notice?"

Luke gaped at her. Evidently he hadn't heard of that incident. It had technically been a different insurgent group, only loosely affiliated with Luke's Rebels, but never mind.

"You blew up a planet!" he spluttered in response, a moment too late to be convincing.

Oloranti had taken a step back in discomfort.

Tarkin eyed Natasi for a moment. She'd agreed to attend this evening, but she was being nearly as recalcitrant as Luke was, past her usual aloofness and into snide sulking. It was childish, and it did not become her. He would have put a stop to it by now, except that Luke seemed to respond to her manner more readily than that of Tarkin or his children. He'd noted Luke's paradoxical smile, on the landing platform, when Natasi had called him a terrorist. Perhaps it was a part of what Luke needed, having an Imperial around who _knew_ he wasn't one of them, and who wasn't afraid to say so. Rude as it was, perhaps that would ease Luke's fear of losing himself. Perhaps it would be helpful for Vader, too, having a reminder amid Luke's moral harangues that Luke's side was no better. Everyone did what was necessary for their own interests, in the end, or they died.

Natasi, of course, was convinced that Vader was only one step away from tearing down the Empire himself. And Tarkin had invited her here, in part, for that specific reason. Tarkin was practical by nature, but he had a deeper desire than usual for this all to work out. Perhaps an irrational one. If his enthusiasm blinded him to any particular dangers, he would have Natasi and her pessimism to point them out for him.

Garoche stepped up beside Rivoche, examining the artwork closely. His face was unreadable, and he was still handling Natasi's presence by ignoring her completely. "My company used to do a brisk business with Anoat. It's a shame what happened."

Luke glared at them both, correctly suspicious. He turned to Vader and Tarkin. "Where did you get all this art, anyway?"

Tarkin briefly, irrelevantly wished Grand Admiral Thrawn were here. If Luke wanted to have a conversation about art provenance and the ethics of gathering objects from various cultures, Thrawn would have been only too happy to engage. But no matter. "It's from the Imperial treasury, of course. How it arrived there varies, but I confess I'm confused, Luke. You seem to be grasping for reasons to complain-"

"You know _exactly,_ " Luke shot back, "what my reasons are!"

"-when none have appeared," Tarkin continued. He would not be interrupted. "There are no slaves in this palace, and regardless of what you think happened on Anoat, we were gifted this artwork long before that occurred. No doubt the Rebels filled your head with all sorts of nonsense; but you're fixed on such nonsense even when it's not relevant to what's going on. Tell me something. You're not truly trying to solve the problems you think you see, are you? You're only trying to get a rise out of your father."

Luke blinked back at Tarkin, fuming. "Are you saying you don't care?"

"On the contrary, you'll find I have very strong opinions as to how an Empire is to be run. But at the moment, I am not running an Empire; I am running a family." He made a show of diffidence, crossing his arms. "And to arrange a tour without giving this poor guide of ours an attack of apoplexy. If you wish to discuss your political beliefs, we'll do so at dinner. Until then, if your father's presence stresses you, perhaps you'd enjoy the tour more without him. Would that be acceptable to you, Oloranti?"

Oloranti nodded, visibly relieved. She edged towards one of the doors. If Luke was truly as concerned for lowly workers as he pretended to be, then he'd soon take pity on her. "Yes, my lord. If you wish, Your Highness, the next stop in our tour would be the throne room, just through here."

Luke looked at Vader as if being separated from him was a betrayal, just as much as being forced to live with him was. Tarkin suspected that Luke didn't even know what he wanted. "Is that what you want, father?"

Vader gave Tarkin an unreadable look. His voice was cold. "What I want is for you to learn your place here and be content. Perhaps without myself and Emperor Tarkin as targets, you will be more inclined to do those things, and less inclined to shout nonsense about slaves."

"Bold words from somebody who used to _be_ one," said Luke, loud and clearly.

He turned on his heel and strode out through the indicated door. A shocky silence descended.

Vader had gone absolutely, rigidly still.

Tarkin ought to have grabbed Luke and stopped him from leaving like that. Any child of the Tarkin family who made a scene this way would have been cuffed - but Tarkin was not allowed to hurt Luke, and Vader's own reaction might be an even greater danger. He saw Garoche scanning the room uncertainly; he saw Natasi frowning very slightly to herself in thought. Oloranti did the wisest thing for a servant in her position: gave a quick respectful bow, and followed Luke.

It was only Rivoche, to Tarkin's horror, who didn't see the wisdom in keeping her mouth shut at a moment like this. Before Tarkin could think of some appropriate way to de-escalate, she leaned in, her eyes bright and cold and fascinated. "I'm sorry, my lord, you used to _what?_ "

Vader's voice held a level of tension that Tarkin typically only heard when he was strangling someone. "Cease this discussion if you wish to live."

Rivoche pertly tilted her head, making the beads that hung down from her hair jangle. "As you wish, my lord."

She flounced off into the next room after Luke. Garoche fell in step with her and followed.

Tarkin looked dispassionately between the people who were left. There was him, Natasi, several guards at the edges of the room, and an angry Darth Vader.

"You and you," he said, gesturing to two of the Royal Guards. "Take our places in the tour group. If Prince Luke doesn't have Emperor Vader watching, he'll need the additional eyes. You, too, Natasi. Go with him."

Natasi nodded unhappily. She already knew where everything was in this palace, but she could follow the logic. Someone needed to stay with Luke whom Tarkin trusted, and much as he liked having Garoche and Rivoche here, they were not on that list. And, at a time like this, Tarkin didn't want Natasi within Vader's blast radius. "Yes, sir."

She swept out. Tarkin turned his full attention to Vader, and wondered how in the galaxy he was going to deal with _this._

*

"Vader," said Tarkin, snapping him out of his reverie. Vader had been so focused on _not hurting his son_ that he'd gone somewhere else for a while. He was mildly surprised to note that they were still in the ballroom.

Vader was private about his past. This was not the first time that some trauma of his had been revealed to Tarkin without Vader's will or consent. It was not even the worst such incident. But the other times had not been because of _Luke._ They had not been in front of _other people;_ they had only involved Tarkin himself, who never flinched even from Vader's ugliest side.

He turned and looked at Tarkin, unsure what to say.

Tarkin squared his shoulders, but his voice was gentle. "Are you with me, Vader?"

"I am beginning to wish I was not."

"Let's go this way," Tarkin suggested, motioning. Vader followed him out of the ballroom, through the palace's dark labyrinthine halls. He recognized where they were going - to the Imperial Suite, where they'd have privacy. The guards did not follow.

Vader had hoped that, by bringing Luke to Tarkin, he would begin to solve some of Luke's problems. There was no good future for Luke except as an Imperial Prince; he had hoped Tarkin could use his wiles to make Luke understand. Instead Luke was acting out more than ever.

Or was he? He had asked impertinent questions like this on Mustafar, too. But the palace wasn't Mustafar. The palace had protocols. The palace had other people, refined people who were used to being addressed with respect. The attitude which had merely been stressful on Mustafar was _humiliating_ here.

Vader could still feel Luke's mind, even from across the crowded palace. Luke felt chagrined with himself - as he should, after an outburst like that - and was trying to calm down. But the problems he'd had all along still remained. It was not pleasant for Vader, really, sharing a mental bond with someone who hated so much to be around him. He was used to people hating him, he knew it was unreasonable to want Luke to love him so quickly, but the mental bond made it all the more difficult to ignore.

Tarkin looked sidelong at Vader, and Vader felt him prudently choose to speak about Luke, not the content of what Luke had said. "You understand what he's doing, don't you?"

"He is being insubordinate," Vader growled.

"Ah." Tarkin smiled slightly. "That's what you would call it if he was one of your officers, yes. We don't call it that when it's our child. But, either way, it's as I said - he's trying to get a rise out of you. He's lashing out, name-calling, bringing up our supposed crimes and so on - throwing your own emotional weak points back up in your face. Unfortunately, he appears to have had some education in what those points might be. Rivoche went through a phase like that, though her specific complaints were different. But if we can avoid rewarding him with attention for such actions, they'll pass."

Vader looked at him suspiciously. If Luke hated to be around Vader, then leaving him alone like this _was_ a reward. "Did they pass when it was Rivoche?"

He was not sure yet just what he thought of Tarkin's children. Luke had occupied his attention so fully, so urgently, that it had been difficult to focus on them. He had the distinct feeling that they both disliked him, but that could have been for any number of reasons.

Garoche, if not for being Tarkin's child, would have made no impression on Vader at all. He was no longer an Imperial officer, but Vader suspected he'd been the good kind of officer, the kind who did his work quickly and competently and didn't cause annoyance. Those kinds of officer all blended together for Vader after a while, but since they didn't make waves nor fail at their tasks, they were safe with him.

Rivoche, on the other hand, was... annoying. Every word that escaped her lips felt insincere. She looked at Vader as if he was some huge exotic insect - all of Tarkin's cold-blooded curiosity, but without Tarkin's genuine respect. And her most recent rude question had distressed him every bit as much as Luke's outburst. At least Luke had a _reason_ to speak that way to Vader.

"Well," said Tarkin, awkwardly looking away. "I did tell you to take my advice with a grain of salt."

Vader gave him an extremely flat look.

"She's improved," said Tarkin.

Vader stopped in his tracks. They had passed a window as they walked through the deserted corridor - without a coterie of guards, since guards were redundant with Vader around - and Vader turned to it. He braced himself in the window frame and glared out at the planetary city.

"You were supposed to fix this," he said, and he knew it wasn't fair. Knew, as soon as it came out of his mouth, but he didn't have other words. All Tarkin had promised to do was try.

"Well, I've had about half an hour so far, and you've vetoed a few of my usual methods." Tarkin's tone was casual. Vader could feel that he did take this seriously, but his lightness wasn't only an affectation. There was something in Tarkin that looked at Luke like an enjoyable puzzle. "Nor have I run out of ideas. There's no reason for you to give up hope just yet."

But Vader could feel the wheels in Tarkin's head turning, coming up with contingencies as he'd been trained to do. Surely one of those contingencies was a plan for what to do if Luke could not be tamed. In that scenario, Tarkin would have to handle, not only Luke, but Vader.

Vader flexed his hands against the window frame, stopping only when it begin to creak. Tarkin was being generous, really, agreeing to act like Luke's parent at all. And since he'd invited his own children-

"I have been wondering something," said Vader.

"Yes?"

"You have referred to Garoche and Rivoche, more than once now, as Luke's step-siblings."

"Yes." He felt, rather than saw, Tarkin smile slightly. "That is, it's the closest-"

"Did you mean that?" Vader pressed.

Tarkin paused, perhaps realizing only now how important this was.

"Yes," he said after a moment, more solemnly. "I realize the legal trappings aren't fully in place. This ruling-the-galaxy business seems to have snuck up on us before I could ask you about all that. But I said that I see us all as the Imperial Family, singular, and I meant that. If you'll have us."

If Luke, Garoche, and Rivoche were all step-siblings, then Tarkin was Luke's stepfather. And...

"Then your children are my children," Vader repeated, struggling to assimilate it. "I have three children."

Hearing Tarkin say it made it real. Vader had been turning this over, in the back of his mind, ever since Tarkin first breathed the word _step-siblings_ over a long-distance comm. But there had been so much else distracting him, and Vader did not know where to start. He had been trying to get used to having one, miraculous, long-lost child - and now he had _three._

But all three of them were adults he had only just met. Rivoche was old enough that Vader couldn't biologically have been her father at all. Garoche was practically Vader's own age. And all three of them already disliked him.

"In a sense, yes," said Tarkin.

"How do I-" Vader started, and he broke off, unable to fully explain the problem. He _wanted_ three children, even if one was annoying and another was a Rebel. Vader wanted all the children he could get. But what would it take to bring them _all_ around, to convince all three that he had something to offer them? It seemed impossible. "What must I do?"

Tarkin stepped forward and lightly placed his hand on Vader's arm. Just above the elbow, below the shoulder plating, where there was still living skin beneath the fabrics - Tarkin knew Vader's body well enough to find such places. "Don't worry about that for now. Let's focus on the problem of Luke first. The other two will still be there once he's dealt with."

Vader turned to face him, stung by the rejection. He curled his hands into petulant fists. "They do not want me anyway, do they?"

Tarkin frowned at him. "Vader-"

"No one wants a monster for a father. No one wants a broken _killing machine-_ "

"Vader." This time Tarkin's tone was stern enough that it brought Vader to a halt. "Remember what I just said? This is precisely the result Luke intends. He appeals to your conscience to try to throw you off-balance. And I don't think he's known you long enough to understand just _how_ far off balance you can go. This isn't really about you being a monster. All Luke knows is that he currently feels helpless, and if he can hit your weak points and get reactions out of you, he regains some modicum of power." Tarkin looked up into Vader's face impatiently. "He's manipulating you."

Vader looked at Tarkin suspiciously. He knew - he could _feel_ \- that Tarkin cared about him. Tarkin was good at spotting manipulation. He'd spotted the things Vader's master did to him, in that vein, even when Vader tried to hide them; and he'd often had insights that Vader did not. He was clever about such things.

Because Tarkin was a manipulator, too.

It wasn't wholly a bad thing. At least Tarkin didn't sadistically enjoy the process for its own sake, like Palpatine, misleading people into ruin just so he could cackle about it later. Tarkin really did want the best for Vader - or what he thought was best for Vader. And Tarkin would do anything, no matter how ruthless, to accomplish his goals.

Tarkin might even be correct about this. Luke did feel powerless. Lashing out while in a helpless state, just to feel himself having _some_ effect on _something,_ was a feeling Vader recognized.

But he also had a feeling that it wasn't just that.

Vader _was_ a monster. Luke hadn't made that up; even Tarkin didn't deny it. M4 had quibbled with the meaning of the word, but she herself had told Vader that a good part of his madness was a result of his own evil deeds. He'd hurt himself somehow, in the process of hurting others; he'd somehow become more monstrous than his shriveled heart could bear. Luke felt that, maybe. It was at the heart of the worst questions Luke had kept asking: why had his father fallen to the Dark Side? Why was he a monster? How could that have happened? How could he be so different, so much worse and more frightening, than the father Luke needed?

This was not a mere _weak point._

But Vader did not know if he could explain all of that to Tarkin. Tarkin might call himself a monster for rhetorical effect; but Tarkin didn't have any of those symptoms M4 had been talking about, the guilt, the self-hatred, the difficulty in connecting to anyone. If Vader tried to explain what moral injury was, Tarkin would probably not understand. He would think it was silly. Weak.

He'd _already_ called it weak.

Vader stared at him silently, feeling suddenly very alone.

Tarkin ran his hand soothingly down Vader's arm. He was watching Vader's body language very carefully. "But you can see through it now, I'm sure."

"I am sure," Vader repeated sourly, and even he wasn't sure if it was sarcasm.

Tarkin's indrawn face was tense with concern. "About what he said, Vader. I hadn't known, not for sure. I'd had certain suspicions. But you didn't seem to want to discuss it-"

"I do not," Vader snapped. He kept those old memories buried for a reason. He wasn't even sure what could have given Tarkin those suspicions. Did Vader had a sign planted on him that said _slave?_

He felt Tarkin mentally sorting through his rapidly dwindling list of things to say. Perhaps Vader would take pity on him when he got to the end. Perhaps Vader, for once, would be the one to offer comfort to his unruly lover. "I meant to ask, also - how is therapy going?"

"I have had two appointments," said Vader, thinking guiltily of how he had choked M4. She would be fine - he hadn't damaged her - but in the heat of his rage he had wanted to. He owed her an apology. "We have identified some problems."

"That's progress." Tarkin shifted, trying to see if he could beckon Vader to walk with him again, but Vader wasn't having that yet. "I know you won't suddenly be cured overnight, but you'll make gains over time. Which is how we should be thinking of this fatherhood business as well. Long-term progress, not an instant fix."

It made sense, but it was curiously at odds with Tarkin's own approach - inviting everyone into the palace at once, demanding that they all should get along for his benefit.

Vader didn't want to think about this anymore.

He stepped toward Tarkin, pulling him in a little closer. "Perhaps I would like a distraction. We have an hour unexpectedly free. And I have missed you."

Tarkin's smile sharpened. They'd only been apart a few days, but in that time Vader had almost died, and then vanished, and then suddenly acquired a son who was a Rebel. A lot could happen in a few days. Vader knew - Vader _felt_ \- that, even amid all the other commotion, Tarkin had missed him, too.

Using a trick he had learned in his Jedi days, Vader pulled mental shields in around himself and ensured that his mental bond with Luke was shut for now. He let himself be led to the Imperial Suite.

*

As soon as the Emperors left, Luke felt like an idiot. He could feel Vader's humiliated rage. Through a more normal set of senses, he took in Oloranti's nervous discomfort. Tarkin's children radiated fearful embarrassment despite their outward poise. Grand Admiral Daala had already moved past fear and into a general frustrated disgust with everything around her. The guards, masked in red, were unreadable.

Luke had known he was saying something Vader didn't want him to say, poking one of his father's emotional sore spots. He'd done it on purpose; he'd been trying to figure out how to throw a _meaningful_ tantrum, the kind that might actually change anything, or at least make it clear why he wasn't happy right now. But he hadn't realized _nobody knew._ Not even Tarkin and Daala, who'd both been around him for a while. Tarkin hadn't felt as surprised as the others. But nobody here had ever known for sure that Vader had been a slave.

And what did that say about Vader, that he'd never told them? Weren't he and Tarkin practically married? What did they talk about all day?

Either way, Luke was an idiot, and he'd crossed a line. Just this once, Vader was right to be angry.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to pull himself together.

"Your Highnesses," Oloranti said politely. She had a job to do, after all. "Would you like a short break, or would you like me to show you the throne room?"

For some reason it was Daala who opened her mouth and said crisply, "A break, please." She was watching Luke carefully. Nobody disagreed.

Oloranti nodded and withdrew. "As you wish, sir."

They were already in the lower gallery from which the thrones were meant to be approached, and Luke could see them well enough from where he was. Since the Emperors weren't actually holding court at this moment, there was a velvet rope blocking off closer access. Beyond it, the slender ribbon of carpet in the center of the room proceeded on, past terminals and guard stations, to a pair of large, stylized chairs which were clearly meant to be thrones. Luke wondered which one of them was supposed to be Vader's and which one Tarkin's. Was there symbolism to it, the right hand and the left hand? Or did they switch?

Something felt _wrong_ to him about this room. The whole Imperial Palace felt wrong in the Force. Luke could feel something, hidden and ugly, lurking under its gilded facade - but he didn't need the Force to know about that. _Obviously_ an ugly thing lurked under here: it was called tyranny. But his senses had been nagging at him ever since he entered the building, whispering that there was more to it than that. And there was something _else_ about this throne room in particular, something wrong in a more personal way.

_Oh,_ he thought, looking uneasily at those thrones. Of course, this place had only been Vader and Tarkin's throne room for a few months. Before that, it would have been Palpatine's. Vader would have met and taken orders from his master here. Whatever had used to happen between them, whatever had spurred Vader to regicide - whatever he'd told Luke to _pray he did not understand_ \- some of it had happened here.

Luke shivered.

He looked around to distract himself, and his gaze fell on Oloranti. _Our poor tour guide,_ Tarkin had said. Luke had been trying to get through to his father's conscience - maybe the rest of the Imperial Family's conscience, too, if they had one. But Oloranti was the one who might get fired from her job or choked to death if things went wrong. Oloranti worked for the Empire; she helped feed people a sanitized, glittery version of what the Empire was about; but she'd probably never really hurt anyone. Not the way Vader and Tarkin hurt people. She didn't deserve to be put in danger.

"Hey," he said softly, walking closer to her. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all that."

Oloranti blinked at him, politely puzzled. "You're sorry to _me?_ "

"Yeah. I'm... it's complicated with me right now. But none of it's your fault. You're just doing a job. And I didn't stop and think about what it would be like for you."

Oloranti smiled slightly. He could feel that she did appreciate being apologized to. He could also feel that she didn't want to get into any deeper discussion. She was a professional on duty. Whatever opinion she had of Luke, or the Rebels, or of the entire idea of Emperor Vader having a son - or of the rest of the family, for that matter - she would keep it to herself.

"Thank you," she said, "but don't worry about it. It's not exactly the first time someone's had a spat or made seditious outbursts in the middle of the tour." She tilted her head. "Though it's not usually a prince, of course. Usually the guards can take care of it."

_I'm not a prince,_ Luke wanted to protest, _not really._ But what would it mean? From Oloranti's point of view, Luke _was_ a prince - someone too high-ranking, thanks to his family, to be dealt with in the normal way. That was all the word _prince_ meant to her. She didn't care what he politically believed.

Behind him, a few feet further from the velvet rope, he heard Rivoche's voice. "Why are you still here?"

Luke wondered with a jolt, for a moment, if she was talking to him. But it was Daala who answered. "I was ordered to be here, Your Highness."

He turned and looked at the two of them and Garoche. So far, Luke's Force senses hadn't picked up anything useful about Tarkin's family. They all felt cold and withdrawn - but in three different ways. Even Rivoche was talking loudly, something about her felt withdrawn.

Garoche shook his head in Rivoche's direction. "She's not responsible for Father's faults, Riv."

"No, but she _profits_ from them." Rivoche took a step toward Daala. "What's the chain of command like between you and me right now? Does an Imperial Princess outrank a Grand Admiral? Daddy said he'd speak to us about protocol but he hasn't gotten to that one, yet."

Daala did not move. "In social protocol, yes, you outrank me. In a military situation, or if there was an imminent threat of violence, you would be expected to take my orders. Neither of us, in either case, may countermand the orders of an Emperor."

"Then if I were to order you to go away-"

"You would lack the authority, yes."

Rivoche picked at her lower lip with a long fingernail, considering this. "But was it really an _order,_ or more of a suggestion? He can hardly expect you to babysit his children when we're both older than you."

"Riv," Garoche said warningly, which didn't seem to do any good.

Daala let her glance slide meaningfully to Luke. "You know exactly why the three of you require supervision. It has nothing to do with your age."

Rivoche elegantly shrugged. "Sure, there's a Rebel in our midst. But surely all these big, scary guardsmen can handle him without you. Now that the Emperors are gone, you could go and treat yourself to something nice. I won't tell." She reached out and attempted to ruffle Daala's long red hair, as one would a child's.

Instantly, Daala reached out and caught her by the wrist. She held it in a position that looked only a degree off normal, but it made Rivoche yelp and stumble to the side, trapped.

"I am aware," Daala said through her teeth, "that you are Emperor Tarkin's legal child. But if you touch me without my permission, I will _remove your hand._ "

Rivoche blinked at her, thrown off balance for the moment. And then, for some reason, she smiled. She looked genuinely pleased.

Daala let go of her.

"Then you have a backbone even when Daddy's not watching," Rivoche said. She stepped back and gave Daala a courtly, respectful nod. The beads in her hair jangled. "That's reassuring. All right, Grand Admiral. Let's be family."

Daala looked unimpressed. Luke realized belatedly that he'd been staring at both of them like a rube. What was even going on?

"We were already family," said Daala flatly, "as of this afternoon. It's not something you choose."

Garoche, in the meantime, had moved away from them, and now he laid a hand lightly on Luke's shoulder. "Let's keep on with the tour, shall we? Now that apologies have been made, and no one's father is looming over them, it should go more smoothly."

"Yeah, sure," said Luke, shrugging. Garoche felt cold and distant like the rest of them, but he bothered Luke less than his father or sister. If only because he hadn't _done_ anything yet. Maybe that was the secret to surviving in a family like this. Keep your head down. Be polite. Luke didn't know how to do that in front of the Emperors, not without losing some part of himself, but it was a nice thought.

Before long, they had reassembled into something like a proper tour group, and Oloranti had gone back to her enthusiastic patter. "When the current Emperors took power, they had this room remodeled so as to draw attention to a pair of thrones, rather than a single one. But the overall design is still very much a piece with Imperial tradition. The throne at the left was specially reinforced to hold Emperor Vader's weight. You'll note the curved and modernist design of both chairs, which was inspired by..."

It was a few minutes later before Luke realized he had not flinched away from Garoche's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see you with more imperial dinner party shenanigans in... november? probably. we'll see :D


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luke breaks the ice with his new step-siblings, royal rooms are designed, formal dining is too complicated, Rivoche gets very invested in wine etiquette, and everybody talks politics at the dinner table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh, well, I said there might or might not be another update in October, and here we are... :-D
> 
> Kinktober's fun and all, but I missed this fic.

Eventually the tour group found themselves on a balcony, watching the Changing of the Royal Guard. This was a long, mystifying ceremony in which patriotic music played while the palace's red-masked guards marched around in intricate patterns - a lot more marching than necessary, Luke thought.

He understood military ceremonies, sort of. The Rebels had some too. Luke still remembered the medal ceremony after the Battle of Yavin, the way all the Rebel soldiers had lined up at attention, pivoting in unison to follow him and Han as they walked up the temple steps to where Leia waited. The way his heart had burst with pride. But that kind of thing was for real victories, big occasions, not just for one shift on guard duty relieving another.

After explaining the ceremony, Oloranti withdrew a bit and let the Imperial Family watch for themselves. There were other spectators, not up on this balcony, but on the ground - far enough that they were just little people-shaped specks.

"I've seen this before," said Daala, after a silent minute watching the guards. "I'm going to check my work messages."

She withdrew slightly, not out of sight of the balcony, but out of earshot, to a comms panel just inside the building. Rivoche hadn't picked on Daala any more after the hair-ruffling incident - she'd been pretty friendly after that - but Daala didn't seem any more comfortable around her than before.

"Fathers, am I right?" Rivoche said companionably. It was just her and Luke and Garoche on the balcony now, plus the guards. The Tarkin siblings stood on either side of Luke, both tall enough to easily exchange glances over his head. The guards stood still a few steps away and did not make conversation. "I truly don't like this. I can _tell_ this whole visit is one of his schemes. I bet he's watching us even now. These guards are going to report back everything we say, I don't wonder."

"Then you ought not insult his hospitality where he can hear you," Garoche shot back.

"Or maybe he doesn't even need the guards," Rivoche continued. "Maybe without them there'd be other mechanisms, microphones or something. Ugh." She turned to Luke, peering down at him. "But _your_ father's Darth Vader. What's that like?"

"I don't know." Luke rested his chin in his hands, looking down at the guards below them. "I've only known him a few days."

"Yes, and before that you were a Rebel, I heard." She didn't say that word with Daala's revulsion; she was cold and curious and amused. "I imagine that was quite the transition."

"He kidnapped me," Luke said, his knuckles paling as he held on to the railing. He didn't know why it slipped out. He didn't think he should talk about his feelings with Tarkin's children. He was pretty sure he couldn't trust them. He was pretty sure they wouldn't _care;_ if they did care, it was probably only so they could use it against him.

But they felt... interested. At least.

Piett and the servants hadn't been brave enough to talk to Luke about his feelings. Neap and Ben hadn't been around long enough. Vader wanted to listen, but Vader was the one who'd done this to Luke in the first place.

Garoche made a thoughtful face. "You know, I think Father left that part out when he told us about you."

"He left it _out?_ " Luke exclaimed, incensed.

In small pieces, egged along, he ended up telling them a lot of it. Not everything. Definitely not anything about the Rebels, because Luke wasn't _stupid_. But the things that had been weighing on him most. How Vader had threatened his friends to make him get on the shuttle. How he'd thought that his father was Anakin Skywalker, and that had turned out to be both true and not true. How Vader lived on a stupid lava planet with hardly any friends, and how he seemed so unhappy about being on the Dark Side, but wouldn't tell Luke why he used it. How he'd found out that he and Vader shared a mental bond, and tried to fly away in Vader's speeder, but with no success.

"Hang on," said Rivoche, frowning. "What's a mental bond?"

Luke gestured at his head, He wasn't sure how to explain. "He can tell where I am and how I'm feeling. Both of us can feel that. About each other."

"More than Vader's usual telepathy, you mean," said Garoche. "He can sense most people's minds to some degree, can't he?"

"Yeah, but it's different. It's like..." Luke wasn't even sure what this was like on Vader's end. He knew what the bond felt like to him; he didn't know what it felt like to someone who's been using the Force effortlessly for decades. "It's a lot more detail. And it works from a lot farther away. The Inquisitors could sense when there were Jedi near them, but with Vader it's even more powerful. And he can talk into my head. I hate that."

Rivoche looked like she was thinking hard. "Is he talking into your head now?"

"No. Actually, the bond's not even working right now. He closed it off a few minutes ago; I don't know why." Luke had felt Vader's distress after he blurted out that Vader was a slave, but several minutes later he had stopped feeling Vader's presence. The bond was still there, but it had been closed up tight, blocked with something that felt a little like the shields Ben had used last night, to keep Vader from seeing him.

Garoche and Rivoche exchanged one of those glances over his head. Luke suddenly, belatedly figured it out. Tarkin had been alone there with Vader, after all. Luke turned bright red.

Rivoche looked at him. "So you can't escape, because he'd know where you'd escaped to."

Luke nodded. "I don't think it's an infinite range, but I don't know how big the range is, you know? And even if I made it out, I couldn't go back to the Rebels. Because if I did, and he ever came close to where we were hiding..."

Rivoche nodded sagely.

The changing of the guard had finally finished. With a flourish, last shift's complement of Royal Guards went marching back into the guts of the palace. The current shift went still, standing straight and unmoving the way guards were supposed to. The crowd of tourists down on the ground started to break up and wander away. Daala hadn't returned to them yet, she was frowning, absorbed in whatever was happening on her console screen.

"Then I suppose the question is what you want to do about that," said Garoche, and Luke scowled. Of course it was, he _knew_ it was, but there wasn't anything good he could do here. Just a bunch of different kinds of bad. "Do you want to stay here and enjoy being a prince? Learn to make your mark on the galaxy?"

" _No,_ " Luke said fiercely.

"Then you haven't given up hope you'll escape. Somehow."

Luke opened his mouth, but just then Daala tapped a final key to close whatever it was she'd been working on, logged out of the console, and stalked back towards the balcony. Oloranti, taking her cues from the Grand Admiral, hurried back as well. So he just shook his head, and resigned himself to being guided through every other room in the palace.

*

The palace had too many rooms, in Luke's opinion, and he knew they hadn't seen it all. In the hour or two of the tour, Oloranti never even brought them to the kitchens that she'd mentioned, let alone the laundries or the guards' quarters or anything else below the surface. Not even offices or anything. Just endless black cavernous glittering rooms.

There were offices, though. And after the tour, while Tarkin whisked his side of the family away for drinks, Luke found himself plopped into a chair in one of those offices, a spare and black-walled room with a very expensive holo-desk and shelves full of neatly stacked datapads. Vader stood behind him, not trusting his bulk to the standard-issue office chairs. If Vader was still mad about the slavery thing, he didn't mention it.

At the other side of the desk sat Jora Leffe, the Chief Imperial Architect. Leffe was a heavyset woman with short, curly hair, whose fingers moved restlessly over the pile of datapads in front of her. Her mind - Luke had gotten to the point of reflexively looking at _everyone's_ mind - felt focused in an oddly soothing way. Whatever Leffe might think of Luke and Vader, she liked her work, and she was happy to be here for it.

"Show my son your designs for the expanded Imperial Suite," Vader commanded.

"Of course, my lord."

Leffe keyed in a short command and a set of familiar schematics popped into the air. They were the same ones Luke recognized from Vader's workshop, when Vader had tried to talk to him about this before. In the workshop, Luke hadn't wanted to bother with it; he had still believed he was getting away soon. He didn't have that excuse now.

"You never got back to me about what exactly Prince Luke wanted for his personal rooms, my lord," said Leffe, "or which of the designs you preferred for yourself, so that's held up our development a little. But we've worked out the approximate amount of space a boy like him would need, and we've added that general amount to the schematics, so maybe that will help."

She was talking to Vader, not Luke, and Luke was surprised at her tone. Most Imperials would _never_ dare to tell Darth Vader that he'd held up their work. But to Leffe it wasn't really a complaint, just a fact. It hadn't occurred to her to be upset about it.

"Luke," Vader commanded, "tell the architect what you need."

Luke buried his face in his hands. He needed not to be trapped with Darth Vader. That was what he needed. But he wasn't going to get it anytime soon.

_Then you haven't given up hope you'll escape,_ Garoche had said. Luke wasn't sure that was true, but he did still have a tiny hope. Vader was able to close the mental connection when he wanted to, after all. Ben, with his shields, could do something similar. That meant that Luke could do that, too, right? Once he learned the trick to it. He'd tried on and off on the way here, so far without any luck.

But it might take weeks or months or maybe even years before he learned to be that good with the Force. Luke didn't have a real teacher, and he had to live _somewhere_ while he taught himself. The Imperial Palace had Emperor Tarkin in it - and that feeling of hidden wrongness, deep down - but it was still better than Mustafar. It didn't feel like wading through an entire sea of Dark Side. He would be able to leave the building here without running straight into lava. He wouldn't be all alone.

"I don't know," he said. "A bedroom?"

Leffe paused. "Only a bedroom, Your Highness?"

At the Lars homestead, Luke had only a bedroom to himself. In the Rebel barracks, he hadn't even technically had that much. But princes lived differently. Luke wasn't even sure what they expected him to ask for. A hot rod like one of Vader's? His favorite foods every day? Luke didn't want to ask for pointless luxuries. But he remembered how the servants at Fortress Vader had freaked out when he said he didn't want anything. He should ask for _something._

"Um, a training room," he said, thinking carefully. "Like Emperor Vader's, except, um-"

"Significantly less lethal," Vader supplied. "He is a beginner. Or we could share the training room, but add settings at a level that are safe for you, with the more dangerous routines biometrically locked to my voice."

That sounded a lot more sensible than building two training rooms. "Sure, that would be great," said Luke. "And I want a place where I can, um, you know, sit by myself if I want to - maybe watch vids or eat breakfast or something instead of making a big dining-hall thing out of it every time."

Leffe nodded attentively, tapping notes into one of her datapads. "A private sitting room, Your Highness, with a holovid player. And perhaps a kitchenette?"

"Yeah, sure. And..." He squinted at the schematics. "Is that a workshop?"

"Yes," said Vader.

"Is there room in there for me to work on stuff?"

"We could add extra space to the workshop," said Leffe. She zoomed in on a few of the schematics and rotated them, looking for places where that would fit.

Luke was astonished how trusting they were. Luke was a Rebel, and Vader and Leffe were both happy to plan to give him a space of his own where he could build bombs or rogue droids or even getaway vehicles-

"And ensure there is room for Royal Guards to be stationed," Vader said, "at each entrance point to his quarters, at all times."

Oh.

Okay.

Luke leaned forward on the desk and buried his face in his hands again.

*

Finally it was time for dinner. Luke had briefly seen the dining hall on the tour already: it was a dark room like the palace's other dark rooms, but with silvery accents and little strategically placed lights, brightening it to look like a clear moonlit night back home. It could have held many more tables - and a partition, currently shut, led into the even bigger gilded cavern of the ballroom - but right now there was only the Imperial Family's table, in the middle of the room, set with a silver tablecloth and a centerpiece like a silver tree frosted with stars. It would have been a pretty scene if it happened to other people.

The servants who led them in had very specific ideas about who sat where. The table was an oval, and Emperor Tarkin sat at its head in an especially fancy chair, with Vader on his right with a bulkier, almost-as-fancy one and Daala on his left. Luke was next to Vader, which meant Rivoche took the foot of the table on his other side, and Garoche was awkwardly left as a buffer between his sister and Daala.

"Vader. Prince Luke," Tarkin said, as the two of them were ushered to their seats. "How did the meeting go with Architect Leffe?"

"Well," said Vader shortly.

They had settled on a plan. Some unfinished areas below the palace would be cleared away for Vader's rooms, with a few rooms of Luke's added on at the side. Luke hadn't paid a lot of attention to the details. Definitely not as much as Vader, who was all too eager to have permanent rooms where his son could live, or Leffe, who had been delighted to talk about little architectural details until Luke's eyes glazed over. She'd pestered him about what color schemes he preferred, what styles of imperial design, and Luke had said, _I don't know, just not black?_ Eventually he'd given up and started pointing to the options that she offered at random.

But he'd gotten through the whole meeting without calling anyone a war criminal. Or mentioning slaves.

Garoche's blue-gray gaze met Luke's. "You'll be staying here permanently, then?"

Luke scowled. "Looks like I don't have much choice."

Tarkin's smile twitched just the tiniest bit wider. "Well, come and have a seat."

Luke sat and put his napkin in his lap. The servants stepped forward and set covered plates in front of each person, Tarkin first, then moving around the table counter-clockwise. Luke abruptly realized that he didn't know _how_ to have a fancy dinner. Fortress Vader's food was plentiful and tasted good, but this was a whole other level. There were more forks, spoons, and knives by his place than he knew what to do with - even three wine glasses for some reason. There would be rules here, like the one where Neap and Piett couldn't eat until Luke did, but even more, and Luke wouldn't know what they were until he broke them.

Another pair of servants stepped forward, pouring Tarkin one small glass of cold water and one of white wine. Daala got the same thing, and then on around the table - everybody but Vader, who couldn't eat. Finally the servants removed the covers from the plates and withdrew.

Luke stared down at his plate, perplexed.

It was a normal sized dinner plate. But the amount of food on it was tiny. There were five careful slices of fruit in two different colors, each no bigger than a coin, artfully arranged to make the shape of a flower. The whole thing all put together was smaller than the palm of his hand.

Rivoche looked at him in amusement. "It's called an apéretif," she explained. "These meals come with an exceeding number of courses. Don't worry; you'll be full by the end."

"Is this how you eat all the time?" Luke protested. This was going to take forever. He was glad he'd thought to ask for a kitchenette of his own.

" _We_ don't," said Rivoche. "I'm not sure about the Emperors."

"It varies," Tarkin answered. "We often have formal or informal political meetings over meals, and many are less elaborate. But this is a special occasion; the whole Imperial Family dining together for the first time. I thought we ought to give it the attention it deserves. In any case, cheers." He picked up his wine glass.

Everyone else except Vader moved to copy him, and Luke did the same. He almost thoughtlessly brought the glass to his lips before he saw that everyone else was taking their time, staring into the wine, swirling it a little.

He leaned over to Rivoche, even more perplexed. "What are you doing? Are you checking it for poison?"

Rivoche grinned. "That's not a bad idea, but actually, this is called appreciating wine properly. Here, I'll show you. First you hold up the glass against a white background, like this. To evaluate the color."

Garoche gave her a small, exasperated look, like this was a topic Rivoche went on about too often, but Luke did as he was told. The closest thing to a white background around here was the silvery tablecloth. He held his wine glass up in front of that. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. It looked the same color as everyone else's wine.

"Then you swirl it a little, to aerate it." Rivoche demonstrated, and Luke tried to tilt and swirl his glass the way she was doing. He tilted it too far and spilled it onto his lap.

A servant immediately appeared, whisked Luke's soiled napkin away, and provided another.

"I don't think I'm cut out for this," Luke said despairingly. Tarkin, Daala, and Garoche had already taken demure sips of their wine and moved on to the tiny food. "Two months ago I lived on a moisture farm."

"Nonsense. You're doing fine; you only need instruction. Now, look at the wine. Is it more of a lemon gold or an amber?"

"I don't know," Luke said, staring into his glass. It looked vaguely yellow. He didn't know what any of this stuff meant.

The other three at the table were already politely finishing their apéretifs. Daala muttered something in Tarkin's ear, and he stifled a laugh.

Rivoche ran him through a series of instructions for properly appreciating wine, the way she'd learned at preparatory school, which only seemed to get more complex by the minute. Luke could _tell_ she thought it was funny when he was confused, but that only made him more determined to figure this out. He'd gotten to the point of trying to hold the wine glass directly above his head and look through the stem without spilling any - something about refraction, Rivoche insisted - when Vader's hand came down heavily on his shoulder.

"Stop this," he said - to Rivoche, not to Luke.

Rivoche gave Vader an exaggerated innocent look, and Luke belatedly realized what was going on.

"Well- Hey!" said Luke. "I thought you were serious!"

Rivoche burst into unrepentant giggles. Luke shrugged off Vader's hand, glared at her, and then downed everything in the wine glass in a single gulp. He'd actually never had wine before. It tasted sour-sweet and mildly unpleasant.

He wasn't even that mad. Luke was popular with the Rebels because of Yavin, but he'd never been the popular one before that, growing up. He'd been the shrimpy, too-innocent tag-along who daydreamed and got distracted by cool ships. He'd been okay with that, mostly. If this was a game of _bait the farm boy,_ Luke knew how to play along.

"Riv," said Garoche, "did you actually learn anything at that school, besides how to bully like a twelve-year-old girl?"

"I learned _that_ from _you,_ " Rivoche said primly.

Luke glanced at Grand Admiral Daala - she struck him as the most likely, out of all of them, to just eat her food the way she was supposed to. Of all the forks arranged by her place at the table, she'd taken the outermost one, a cocktail fork as small as the rest of the food. Luke copied her and skewered a coin's worth of fruit, and then he waved it in the air, deliberately rude, as he turned back to Rivoche. "Hey, I could be doing a lot worse. I could eat this all with my bare hands. I bet you have a soup course. I could eat _that_ with my hands. Slurp it right out of them. That's how we do it on the farm!"

"But wouldn't that waste moisture?" Garoche asked innocently, getting in on the game. "Your very livelihood!"

Luke stuffed the rest of the apéretif into his mouth and chewed. Everyone else had already finished eating theirs, even Rivoche, who'd taken prim little mouthfuls in between baiting him. He pushed the wispy fruit slices into the side of his cheek and deliberately talked with his mouth full, wondering just how far he could push this before one of the Emperors complained. "No, see, we were _rich_ moisture farmers. We could afford to waste a little-"

"So rich that you didn't have spoons?" said Rivoche.

They went back and forth like that as the servants cleared away their plates and brought out the second course, which Rivoche explained was an appetizer. Luke thought they'd had one of those already - he'd assumed _apéretif_ was just a fancy word for appetizer, but apparently not. This time everybody got three tiny little tart shells, only a little bit bigger than the fruit-coins of the first course, stuffed with a colorful mix of foods Luke couldn't even identify. Seafood and vegetables and something creamy, was his best guess, once he'd put one in his mouth.

It was only Garoche and Rivoche teasing him, Luke noticed. The others didn't intervene. Daala and Tarkin exchanged quiet words once or twice, or Tarkin murmured something to Vader, but mostly they only watched. Daala looked focused and wary, like she hadn't quite figured the three of them out yet. Vader's mask betrayed nothing, but Luke was acutely aware of his presence. He couldn't feel anything coherent in his father's mind, but he knew that Vader was watching the three of them closely, with mixed, poignant feelings.

Tarkin looked on silently from his place at the head of the table, with a look on his narrow face that, if Luke didn't know any better, he would have called fondness.

It wasn't until the soup course came out - an itty-bitty bowl for everyone, golden orange and full of vegetables Luke couldn't name - that Tarkin cleared his throat.

"You're feeling better, then, I take it?" he asked.

Luke flushed. He still didn't really know how to handle this. He had to adjust to living here. He had to do it without going completely crazy or losing all hope. But every step in that direction also led him closer to the Emperors. Living in their palace. Wearing their clothes. Eating their food. It was a kind of trap, making him comfortable with them. Someone smarter, like Leia, might have seen a way out of it. But not Luke. Not until he figured out how to shield his mind from Vader, at least.

If there were any trickster spirits here, then it was too late for him already.

"I guess," he said, shrugging.

Tarkin's smile sharpened. "I'm glad to hear it. Now, as I recall, earlier this evening, you wanted to talk politics."

And there was the trap. Luke turned a spoonful of soup over pointlessly in his bowl. Now that he wasn't focused on having a tantrum, he didn't really want to talk about those things. It wasn't going to do any good.

Rivoche loudly sighed. "Do we have to, Daddy? At the dinner table?"

Daala's impassive gaze was fixed on Luke. "I want to hear what he has to say."

She'd been quiet all through dinner so far. She'd seemed to enjoy the food, but she hadn't joined in any conversation. Daala was the one, Luke remembered, who'd refused to shake his hand.

Luke bit down on a big spoonful of soup and swallowed it. It was actually delicious. Somehow that made everything even worse.

"I don't know if there's any point," he said. "You all already know I hate the Empire."

"Do you?" said Tarkin calmly.

"Of course I do!" And he did, it was _true,_ but the words rang a little hollow when he was sitting at a table like this.

"Why?" said Tarkin, as if everyone at the table didn't already know. "Enlighten us."

Luke had the distinct feeling that this was another trap, but he didn't know what else to do except answer.

"You all already know," he said stubbornly. He gestured around at everyone. "All of you at this table. It's because you stamped out democracy and set yourself up as dictators instead. And when you're dictators you don't have to make people's lives better to stay in power - you just have to make them afraid of you. And that's what you do. You take trillions of credits that you could have used to help people and instead you spend them on killing people, billions of people, innocent people, just so everyone else who's left will be afraid of you. The Empire is _evil._ That's why I hate it!"

Tarkin took a spoonful of his soup, unruffled. Or at least, he looked unruffled - but Luke caught his glance briefly sliding to Vader. Like he wasn't sure how Vader was going to react.

" _Evil_ is subjective," said Tarkin, "but I'll allow it for the sake of argument. What do you propose in the Empire's place, then?"

Luke was startled that he'd even ask. Obviously he wasn't going to do what Luke told him to do - which meant that this was still a trap, but he still didn't know what kind of trap it was, or what else he could do besides barrel forward.

"A democracy," he said.

Tarkin took another sip of soup. "What kind?"

Luke blinked. "What?"

If Tarkin had grinned at him, or shown any glint of malice in his eye, maybe Luke would have boiled over and refused to keep going. But he continued, as unruffled as if they'd been talking about the weather. "What kind of democracy do you propose? The Galactic Republic was a representative democracy in which thousands individual Senators cast votes on behalf of their home worlds. Your mother's home world was a constitutional monarchy in which a single reigning queen was elected every four years. There have been worlds where every citizen has a direct vote in every government decision; there have been worlds where the local governors were selected at random so as to better represent the common people. There are worlds where it's a question of several religious or clannish factions of the population needing to agree with each other, and the voting structure is set up accordingly. As you surely learned in your studies of democracy, there are a number of other types as well. Which do you prefer?"

"The Republic, obviously," said Luke. "I don't know, maybe you missed the part where we're called the _Alliance to Restore the Republic._ "

"And what makes the Republic's form of democracy superior to the others?" Tarkin asked.

Luke blinked, confused. "Well, it's what we had before."

Tarkin took a last mouthful of soup and put his spoon down. "Indeed. An incisive analysis. And what were things like before?"

Rivoche, beside him made a tiny gesture with her wine glass, swirling it slightly again, as if trying to remind Luke the whole family was baiting him. But he _knew_ the whole family was baiting him. It wasn't like he could just tell them to stop.

"He was not born yet, before," Vader objected suddenly. "He cannot remember. You know that. He was born the day the Empire rose."

Tarkin looked at him, as unruffled as before. He smiled slightly. "Would you rather I asked you?"

Vader tilted his head. "You are playing at something."

"Of course I am," said Tarkin - he didn't seem to care that Luke heard him. "Being an Imperial Prince is a lot of responsibility. If Luke wants to improve upon the Empire in its current form, we ought to test that he understands what he's doing. If he does, all the better. If he doesn't, there are remedies." His expression softened as he looked at Vader for a moment. "But I'm not testing you."

Luke hurriedly drank the last few mouthfuls of his own soup, all in a row.

Vader considered this. "Ask, then."

"What was it like in the days of the Republic?" Tarkin asked him. "Did politicians have to make people's lives better to stay in power?"

Vader's voice was scornful. "No." Luke frowned at him, and he continued without turning. "Money and cronyism sufficed. The Trade Federation stayed in power for years even after they staged an illegal invasion. The Banking Clan played both sides of the Clone Wars to enrich themselves, to no one's benefit but their own. And Sheev Palpatine was powerful in the Republic for decades as well. Their so-called democracy elected _him._ "

An odd shock passed over the other half of the table. Luke already knew what Vader thought of Palpatine, and for obvious reasons so did Tarkin. But the other dinner guests were startled that he'd say it. In public, Vader called himself Palpatine's heir. He was critical of the finer points of how Palpatine had governed, but not like _that._ Even Tarkin looked mildly surprised.

Vader turned his head and looked around the table. He seemed like he hadn't actually meant for that to happen.

"But Emperor Palpatine was the founder of our beloved Empire," said Rivoche, with an innocence that was not completely sincere. "Surely the Republic electing him Chancellor was a mark in its favor?"

Luke could feel something strange in her mind. She knew perfectly well that no one at the table liked Palpatine. She didn't either, if Luke was picking that up correctly. It only surprised her that someone would say it out loud.

Vader regarded her for a breath or two. Tarkin looked like he wanted to interject, but he didn't.

"We are family," Vader said at last. "We are in our home. We need not lie to each other here."

Daala put down her own spoon with a clink; everyone was finished the soup now. "Whatever his faults, my lord - and I agree there were several - I don't like the way that you talk about Palpatine."

"Resign yourself to hearing words you dislike. He was more a monster than I, and that is difficult to achieve."

Daala gave him a strange look. Luke couldn't quite read it, but he was uncomfortably reminded of how Vader had said Daala wanted him dead. "I'm not disagreeing, my lord. But he was one person, and a unique one. He would have found a way to rise to the top in any system. So I don't think his presence in a given system is relevant in a discussion of the system itself."

The servants intervened before Vader could reply, whisking away the empty soup bowls and putting out a salad course, bright vegetables and berries in little bowls with a dressing Luke didn't recognize. He looked at it in mild despair. How long was this going to go on? They hadn't even gotten to any real food.

Tarkin had been looking between Vader and Daala, seeming to weigh very carefully what to say. When the servants walked away again, he turned back to Luke. "Luke, I'll take it your view of the late Emperor is that he was a bad person. Shall we take that as given?"

"That's what I've heard," said Luke. Palpatine had created the Empire, _and_ he'd been a Sith Lord. _And_ he'd done... whatever it was that he'd done to Luke's father. Whatever huge number of horrible things.

"Then he serves as an appropriate illustration of Vader's point. The Republic's system didn't prevent men like him from taking power."

"Are you trying to tell me bad people don't thrive in the Empire?"

"I'm not making my point yet. I'm refuting yours. Now, Vader, you can remember this - were people particularly afraid of the Republic?"

"No," Vader answered. Luke, still copying Daala, picked up the next-outermost fork and poked at his salad despondently. It looked like this lecture was going to go on for a while. "They were more often frustrated when it was not fearsome enough." He turned to Luke. "Your mother's homeworld paid their taxes to the Republic, but it could not protect them when they were invaded. She found it necessary to do that herself. Tatooine paid its taxes to the Republic, and the Republic gave it nothing in return."

Luke held Vader's gaze. He knew better than to say the word _slave_ again, but this was important. "Neither did the Empire, father. I don't know if you've been back down there, but Tatooine hasn't gotten any better."

Tarkin interjected before Vader could. "And the Rebel Alliance has a plan to improve it, no doubt."

Luke bit his tongue. He _knew_ this was a trap. He knew Tarkin was trying to get him to agree that restoring the Republic wouldn't help anybody. But he didn't know what to say in response. The Rebels helped a lot of people on a lot of planets, but he'd had this thought himself before, hadn't he? He'd said it out loud to Vader the other day. _Nobody cares about Tatooine._

Tarkin, seeing his reaction, smiled slightly. "Or don't they?"

Luke stabbed his fork down savagely into the salad. "Right now they're a little busy fighting _you._ "

"And our own forces, likewise, are diverted from crime eradication by the need to deal with _your_ side. How droll. Let me return to my point. The Republic couldn't protect anyone, because nobody feared it. And when no one fears the forces who are supposedly in charge, other forces - like the Hutts - have room to move in and establish themselves. Once established, they are all the more difficult to root out. The sheer number of crime syndicates left over from the time of the Republic's corruption and weakness will take time to deal with, but the Empire has been dealing with them as it can. Or do you need Vader to back me up about that, too?" Tarkin gave Vader a fond look. "I've watched you execute the leaders of several cartels personally."

Vader did not contradict him. Luke put a forkful of salad into his mouth. This was starting to really frustrate him. The Rebels said that the Empire was in league with the cartels. Luke wouldn't put it past the Empire to _both_ be in league with them _and_ kill their leaders - especially if they had some awful planet-killing plan and the cartels' leaders weren't cooperating.

But... What would it be like if they weren't? What if someone like Vader moved in to Tatooine and killed all the Hutts? That didn't seem quite right to Luke, but he wasn't sure he could explain why not. It wasn't like the Hutts deserved to live. Would Vader ruling Tatooine be better than the Hutts? Worse? Would he free any slaves? Luke didn't know, and that bothered him.

It shouldn't have mattered, because Luke didn't want either the Hutts or the Empire to be in charge.

"Ruling by fear appears cruel," Tarkin continued, "but there's a purpose to it. The stronger a leader, the greater the fear created by their shows of force, the more they'll be obeyed, and the fewer other miscreants will step in to challenge or to undermine them. Tell me, Luke, do you have much wildlife on Tatooine?"

Luke stabbed his fork back down again, this time making an audible _clink._ He was sick of this. "No, you know, with the desert and all, we were all just rubes who didn't eat any meat or drink any water, we just hung around with sand all over us-"

"There was wildlife," Vader corrected sourly. "Though little enough."

"Did you have apex predators, then?" asked Garoche, who seemed to see where Tarkin was going with this. Rivoche - who saw it, too - minutely rolled her eyes. Daala only chewed her salad and listened, expressionless. "Creatures that occupied the very top of the food chain."

"There were the krayt dragons, for one," said Vader. "The Sand People revered them as deities."

"And a krayt dragon appears to be cruel, doesn't it?" said Tarkin, turning back to Luke. "It hunts other creatures, it kills them, it eats them, and so on."

Luke shook his head firmly. He'd had this thought already, the moment he met Tarkin, when Tarkin had reminded him of a predatory bird. "That's not the same thing. Animals have to eat; they don't know any better. You don't have to oppress the galaxy."

"You're half right. Unlike other animals, we're capable of reasoning about the systems we're part of, but that doesn't free us from them; it only makes us cleverer in our methods." Tarkin looked at Luke intently. "Did you know that, when an apex predator is removed - as they often are on overdeveloped worlds - the rest of the ecosystem fails? Prey species that were formerly kept in check overrun their grazing grounds. Defective specimens aren't culled from their herds. Plant species and other food sources diminish under the pressure. Smaller, pettier predators - no less cruel than the apex species, but less able to keep order - suddenly abound. Far from being freed to live peaceful and bountiful lives, without some splendid monster to hunt them, animals suffer."

Luke clenched his hand in his napkin. "People aren't animals. And the things you do when you oppress the galaxy aren't hunting. We aren't better off in the Empire. And how dare you-" He took a breath; he couldn't have explained, in the moment, why this made him even angrier than the rest of it. "How dare you talk about _culling defective specimens_ in front of _my father?_ "

Tarkin looked unimpressed by the rest of Luke's arguments, but he blinked at that one, like it took him a moment to even figure out the connection.

Good, Luke thought angrily. Tarkin _should_ be taken aback.

Rivoche stared at the three of them, intrigued. Garoche very slightly raised his eyebrows. Daala remained carefully expressionless.  
  


"Emperor Vader has adapted to his circumstances and proven himself non-defective, of course," said Tarkin after the shortest pause. "That's not what I was talking about."

Luke wanted to shoot back with something sarcastic - sure, Emperor Vader had adapted _so well_ that he'd had to be removed from power for mental health reasons. Instead he bit his tongue. He didn't think Garoche or Rivoche knew about that, and he remembered what had happened when he blurted out that Vader had been a slave. He didn't want to make that mistake again. He didn't want to imagine even for a second what Rivoche would say.

Daala raised her eyebrows skeptically in the silence, and Luke suddenly realized that, even if Garoche and Rivoche didn't know, _she_ did.

Whatever Vader thought of this exchange, Luke could feel him keeping it resolutely to himself.

"You can also adapt," Tarkin continued, regrouping back into calm. "We've established that you think of the Empire as evil. We've also established that you can't coherently argue why any proposed replacement system would do any better. Meanwhile, like it or not, due to your parentage you are now _in_ the Empire - in a position where you might wield real influence, under the right supervision. You could put your new rank to work in fighting those crime cartels you so despise. Stamping out human slavery, if that's important to you. Even reviewing the Empire's adherence to the rules of war. There are many options open. If the war with the Rebel Alliance ever grew serious enough to risk overthrowing us, it would devastate countless worlds and lead to the deaths of billions. But instead of agitating for a side of that war that no one here believes in, you could use your rank and abilities to do good. Why keep throwing your little tantrums when you know it's counterproductive? Why not be civil and work with us?"

"Because you _blow up planets!_ " Luke shouted, his anger boiling over.

Tarkin gave him an unimpressed, unruffled look.

Luke stood up from his chair, leaving the half-eaten salad where it was. "I need some air," he said. He felt completely useless. He could rage and shout against the Empire all he liked and nobody in shouting range would even care.

To his surprise, the Royal Guards stepped out of his way. There was a little courtyard not far from the dining hall, a place that was open to the actual sky, and that was the best place Luke could think of to go. Maybe the guards knew he was heading there. Maybe they just didn't care. Maybe they knew, the way Vader had, that Luke wouldn't be able to run far.

That was definitely why neither Vader nor Tarkin called after him, as he stormed out the doorway and out of their sight.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luke fishes for information and doesn't like what he finds; Tarkin has an idea for a family jungle expedition which is rudely shot down; cheese plates happen; and Natasi Daala is feeling _very_ suspicious about more than one person who's here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "jacqueline, how on earth can you post fanfic on a day like today? why did you think that was a good idea??"  
> "because it's my primary coping mechanism :-|||"  
> "but... surely if that was the case you'd be writing fluffy escapism to help people feel better, rather than heavy angst-"  
> "nope. angst. bye"
> 
> Anyway, specific warning: this is the chapter where Luke finds out why Vader was relieved of command, so those Mentions of Suicide are going to happen a bunch, and one of the people involved will be pretty insensitive in how they discuss it because Imperials, amirite? If that's a trigger for you then uhhhh maybe save this chapter for another day, please.

The courtyard wasn't quiet like a Tatooine night. It wasn't dark like a Tatooine night, either. At least it was better than looking out at fields of lava. The sun had set, and the sky was a dull indigo, illuminated by the city lights that covered every square foot of this planet. Traffic-sounds and a smoggy city smell filtered up faintly from beyond the palace walls. There was a garden here, well-tended trees and bushes and colorful flowerbeds, benches to sit on and little placards identifying the plants, all sandwiched into a small open space between the Imperial Palace's dark walls.

The Imperial Palace still felt wrong. Not as wrong as Mustafar. Not suffused with the Dark Side. Just... wrong. Like something small but important had died, somewhere under these dark clean floors, and was rotting.

Not that Luke could do anything about that.

He sat on a bench in his fancy clothes and cape, feeling sorry for himself. He sat there until he was tired of sulking. But he still didn't want to go back in and listen to Tarkin. He'd had enough.

As he tried to figure out what to do, he heard the rustle of someone approaching, and he looked up.

It was Grand Admiral Daala, in her fancy green dress. She stood as straight and expressionless as always, but something in her gait was softer now. Hesitant.

"Mind if I sit here?" said Daala.

Luke blinked, curious. Vader and Tarkin must have sent her to check on him. They must have decided that was better than doing it themselves.

"Sure," he said.

She sank down on the bench, leaving enough room between them so it wasn't weird. Her big skirt bunched around her hips as she stared pensively into the bushes. "There's only so much of Emperor Vader I can take at one time," she said, and Luke could feel that it was a half-truth. She had been sent out here deliberately. But she didn't exactly like Luke's father, either.

"Tell me about it," said Luke.

She didn't.

Luke shifted, giving her a sidelong look. What was her plan? Just sit still and watch him to see if he did something? Luke didn't understand Daala at all.

"Do you really believe all that stuff?" he said presently.

"What do you mean?"

"About the Empire being good for people."

"Yes," Daala said.

"Because you're _apex predators._ " He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"It's a metaphor, but it's an apt one. Whatever trim little uniforms we might be dressed up in, people are really just beasts. We want territory and security and all the other things beasts want. It's not wrong; it's our nature." She looked at him sidelong.  "Do you really believe all of your Rebel... stuff?"

"Of course I do. Did you think I was lying or something?" He could feel his voice breaking into a whine, but then again, Luke had a lot to whine about. "I don't know why you all bother asking me questions if you won't believe what I say. I don't know why you all are doing _any_ of this. I didn't want any of it."

She shook her head. "I see why you think you're a victim. You were kidnapped, after all; from your perspective, you have cause for complaint. What I don't understand is why you seem to think your father is one, too."

Luke blinked, drawing back. "I don't know, I just-"

How could he explain it? The regret and pain he felt in Vader's mind, even when Vader kept doing evil things. The way he'd agreed so easily to be removed from power, like it was normal for people to take things like that from him. The chill Luke had felt when he looked at the throne room, where Palpatine had once held court, even though Palpatine was gone now.

"So he was a slave," Daala said impatiently. "But that was years ago. He's been the most feared man in the Empire for as long as you've been alive. He has a level of financial and medical support other people would kill for, even when he can't do his job. He's an Emperor now. Palpatine did treat him badly, but Palpatine is gone. Who exactly do you think is still hurting him?"

Luke opened his mouth and shut it, because the first answer that came to mind was _Maybe Tarkin but I'm not really sure,_ and the second was _himself,_ and he didn't think Daala would have any patience for either of those answers.

"I don't know," he said, slumping - and then he had an awful little idea. The kind of idea that would never have occurred to him, if he wasn't already trapped in a den of manipulative people. Sighing heavily and keeping his voice exactly as dejected as before, he added, "I don't even know why he was removed from command."

"He didn't tell you that?" said Daala, and Luke buried his face in his hands. He didn't want her to see if he accidentally grinned or something. "Emperor Vader was removed from command because he tried to _kill_ himself. The very same day that he went haring off to find you. And he tried to misappropriate Imperial resources to do it."

Luke abruptly had no desire to grin anymore.

He'd... Vader had told him that there was an incident. But he'd thought it just meant Vader was acting weird or something. Getting confused about what was going on in the middle of battles. That was plenty enough reason to take someone out of the battlefield before they got hurt. He hadn't thought _this._

"He tried to _trick_ me," Daala continued hotly, "into disintegrating an enemy building while he was still inside. In the middle of a mission. While he gave some addle-brained speech to the air about how he was all the Sith and everyone would die with him. And do you know what Tarkin said when I told him? He said it's not even the first time Vader's asked a co-worker to kill him. Do you think his position was taken from him unfairly? It was taken from him before he could hurt someone with it even worse than he already had, and now he's in mandatory therapy until he can pull himself together. I only wish someone had the balls to do it earlier."

Luke frowned up at her. There were a lot of things to be horrified by in that rant - and he didn't doubt that it was true; it felt like something she'd been holding onto for days. But the worst thing about it was the part she hadn't even quite said. Something Luke felt himself putting together, despite himself, from the clues that were there.

"You wish he'd gone through with it," Luke said. "You wish he was dead."

Daala drew back. It was only the tiniest movement - but it was enough. He could feel her mind. "Is that what he told you?"

"He said you wished he was dead. I thought he was exaggerating."

"I am not interested in regicide," Daala snapped. "For someone who supposedly reads minds, you'd think Emperor Vader would know the difference between a passing thought and an intent. I'm not any danger to him."

Luke could tell she was telling the truth, up to a point, and so was Vader. He could tell Vader scared her. She might not intend to hurt him, but she was afraid of something big, and Vader being alive made her more afraid of it.

This whole mind-reading thing was a _trip_. Luke wasn't sure if he liked it.

Vader and Neap thought that the Dark Side was bad, but they still used it. Daala thought that the Empire was good, but she hated half the people in charge.

Why were any of these people even _here?_

"Sorry," said Daala after a moment, reeling herself in. She was looking at Luke carefully, and he suddenly had the sense that she'd been watching him, in her impassive way, just as much as he'd been watching her. "I was only supposed to check on you."

She was an Imperial who hated him and hated his father. Luke didn't know why he still felt more comfortable, out here with her, than in the dining hall. Daala was awful, but at least she called it like she saw it.

"What are you afraid he'll do?" he asked, on impulse.

She sighed, and he could feel something in her mind close up. He should probably stop staring at her mind. "Emperor Vader's one saving grace is that he's listened to Emperor Tarkin and he's _let_ himself be removed. You don't know what a saving grace that is, Luke. However evil you think that the Empire is now, you don't want to know what it could look like with a madman at the helm." She stood, stiffly, and beckoned to him. "I'm going to go back in before my food gets cold. And before Rivoche decides my absence is a victory for her, somehow. Are you coming?"

Luke imagined going back in. He imagined staying out here. Neither of them felt like good choices, honestly.

_Father,_ he thought in Vader's direction. The mental bond wasn't closed anymore, after all.

_Son,_ came the answer. This time Luke managed not to crash any nearby speeders into the ground.

He didn't know what he was feeling. Darth Vader was awful. If anyone had asked Luke a week ago - if anyone asked Leia, or another proper Rebel who was still at the Rebel base, right _now_ \- they'd say he deserved to be dead.

But not like this. This wasn't fair. He deserved to be cut down in battle or something. There were kids out on Tatooine's farms who killed themselves sometimes, kids with meaner families and less in the way of prospects than Luke, who didn't see any other way off that rock. There were slaves, in the cities, who died that way in even greater numbers. Every once in a while a slave would run away without bothering to try to remove their tracker; they'd let it explode and kill them when they got far away enough from their master, because even that felt better to them than staying. The Hutts called it _theft of property._ Luke didn't wish that death even on his worst enemies.

Much less on his father.

_Your food is getting cold, son,_ said Vader.

He was hurting - not anything new, just the normal background Dark Side hurt that Vader always seemed to have. He wanted Luke to be around him. He needed that, in his pain, even though Luke hated him.

Vader wouldn't have wanted Luke to feel sorry for him. Luke could feel _that,_ too.

But he didn't know what else to do, in the face of pain like that, except come when called.

*

"Feeling any better?" said Tarkin, when Luke slumped back into the dining hall and sat down at the table. Luke shrugged morosely.

The servants had neatly lined up several plates with all the food on them that he'd missed. There were two entrees - two different single-serving cuts of meat in two different sauce and vegetable settings, on two different beds of starch. Luke didn't know enough about fancy food to identify them beyond that. For some stupid reason there was also a cheese plate, and a tiny little cup of half-melted sorbet, no bigger than a shot glass. His second wine glass had also been filled, with a deep red wine this time. Everybody else was already done the main courses and starting on the cheese.

He might as well eat, he guessed. Luke had the appetite of a normal nineteen-year-old boy, and the two appetizers and the soup and the salad hadn't filled him all the way. He decided to start with the sorbet, since nothing else here was going to melt over time, and he grabbed the nearest spoon and dug in. Rivoche gave him a sidelong look, but nobody complained.

"We don't have any further need to discuss politics tonight," Tarkin said, and Luke scowled. Tarkin wanted to sound magnanimous, like he was relenting out of respect for Luke's feelings, but he was only doing it because he'd won the argument. Luke _really_ hated Tarkin. "You're not easily swayed, and that could become a good thing if you had the education to support the points you made. If you're ever interested, I'd be happy to provide tutors in politics, history or any other relevant topic. We can get you up to speed."

Sure, Luke thought. Tutors to indoctrinate him and tell him all about how great the Empire was. Tutors who probably wouldn't give him a straight answer about slavery or war crimes or the other awful things that the Empire did, even if he asked.

"I'll think about it," he muttered, just to get Tarkin off his back. He swallowed the last of his sorbet - it was only two bites - and moved on to the first of the two entrees, picking up the first knife and fork that caught his eye.

He could feel Vader's presence at his side, silent but burning. Luke didn't know what Vader thought of all this. He didn't even know if Vader had picked up on what happened out in the courtyard or not. It was funny; he'd always thought Jedi mind-reading would have cleared up problems and helped people understand each other. But instead it wasn't too different from the way Luke had always paid attention to people and picked up on their moods. It was just _more._ And with a complicated mind like his father's, full of so many interlocking kinds of pain, it seemed to raise more questions than it answered.

Tarkin nibbled on a bit of cheese and watched him calmly.

"There's one other thing I'd like to offer," he said, when he was finished with that mouthful, "that might help. I have a piece of ancestral property on Eriadu, a wilderness area. Traditionally, when the men of my family come of age, they're brought to the wilderness-"

"Only the men," said Rivoche, with a small roll of her eyes.

"-and taught survival skills," Tarkin continued, pointedly ignoring her. "You're now my stepson; it would be natural to include you in that tradition. It might help you to understand some of the points I was making in regards to predation. And if you don't enjoy palaces or fortresses, perhaps the simplicity of the jungle would be-"

"No," said Vader abruptly, the first words he'd said out loud since Luke came in.

Tarkin blinked at him, surprised. "No?"

"You are not taking my son to the Carrion Plateau." He paused, seeming to waver between what he felt in Tarkin's mind and in Luke's. "Not now. We will discuss it later, when he is more settled."

Luke didn't care. He didn't see a difference between being at the palace or camping somewhere. Either way he wasn't where he wanted to be.

He tuned out most of the rest of the discussion; Tarkin didn't seem to need him paying attention anymore. He munched on his food. He thought about Vader.

_Father?_ he thought.

_Yes?_

He didn't know if Vader knew what had happened in the courtyard or not. He didn't _want_ to know if Vader knew. Luke didn't want to talk to his father about his father wanting to die.

But... Daala had said he'd tried to do it the same day he went looking for Luke. And the more Luke thought about that, the less he liked it.

_Why did you come looking for me?_ he asked, clumsily. It was hard to form specific questions this way, without saying the words. _When you did. Why right then?_

_Because that is when I learned you were alive,_ said Vader. _I told you before._

_But..._ Luke couldn't even quite put a name to what he suspected. _Why did you learn it then? What happened?_

Vader paused, and Luke could feel, even before he answered, that whatever he mentally said would be only half-true. _I was given the information from Imperial Intelligence, as it was known to be of interest to me._

Not a lie. But an evasion. Someone from Imperial Intelligence, or someone who had access to the stuff they knew, had decided to tell Vader about Luke _right then._ Someone had decided that, if Vader was trying to destroy himself, then this was the best thing to tell him.

Someone, maybe, who was good at turning Vader - as Vader had said - from his _destructive impulses._

That person had decided that having Luke around was the best way to keep Vader alive.

*

Here is what Luke Skywalker knew about Darth Vader:

He didn't want to keep on living the way he'd been living. Luke didn't know what it was, the Dark Side or the mass murder or the pain he was in or just being an Imperial in the first place, but Vader didn't think this was a good life to live. Not even with all the other luxuries of being Emperor, and an equally-evil lover who liked him just fine the way he was. Deep down, none of this was what Darth Vader wanted. But he didn't understand how to get free of it. Luke, sitting at the Imperial table, wearing his stupid Imperial clothes and eating the Imperial trickster spirits' food, could sympathize with that.

Darth Vader didn't _want_ to be Darth Vader.

And Luke - in some way that he didn't understand, wasn't sure he even _wanted_ to understand - was the key to whatever Darth Vader did next.

*

Tarkin watched Luke carefully, but he didn't make any more trouble during dinner or dessert - he ate as heartily as a boy his age ought to, and he said little unless prompted, looking lost and preoccupied. Once they'd had dessert and a round of champagne and sweetened caf, it was late enough that Tarkin saw fit to dismiss the children to their guest rooms. Vader brooded off to his guest room as well, and Tarkin promised to follow him once he'd sorted out dinner's loose ends.

Then, once everyone else was gone, he took Natasi aside.

Natasi's expression was as stoic as always, but Tarkin was good at reading her little cues, and he knew she wasn't happy. She had good reasons to be uncomfortable around Vader, good reasons to mistrust Luke, and good reasons to feel uncomfortable around Tarkin's children. Around Rivoche in particular, Natasi seemed to have taken the role, not of a stepmother with legitimate authority, but of a _rival._ She'd held her own, but it wasn't what Tarkin had hoped for. He didn't want to think about what it implied.

But of course Natasi wasn't primarily here to deal with Rivoche. She was here to deal with _Luke,_ and with him, her discomfort was an asset. If Tarkin's wish to reunite the Imperial family rendered him careless, a little bit too willing to believe it would all work out, Natasi's pessimism would ground him.

"What did you think of all that, my dear?" he asked her, as soon as they were alone in the dining hall. "Luke was very subdued when he returned; I couldn't tell if that was you, or if his earlier tantrum drained him."

"It was me, sir. He was transparently fishing for information. He wanted to know why Vader had been removed from command, so I told him."

"Ah," said Tarkin, raising his eyebrows. That had been a gamble, but he understood it. Disclosing Vader's weaknesses gave Luke more emotional levers to pull - but it would also keep his expectations low as to what he could accomplish with them. Vader wasn't merely an errant Jedi who'd gone to the wrong side, not someone who could be coaxed to Luke's cause with mere words and then solve everthing for him; Vader's problems ran far deeper than that. Judging from Luke's reaction - not keen on exploiting this newfound weakness, but merely sullen and sad - the gamble had paid off.

"He's manipulative, sir, the way a child is manipulative. He wants us to feel sorry that he's hurting and ashamed that we've made him angry. But he's not actually any _good_ at manipulation, and he's not being strategic about it. So that resolves one of our worries; it only leaves the other two."

"Two?" said Tarkin. He'd thought that they only had two worries, total.

"Yes, sir. First, there's the possibility of Vader converting to Luke's cause on his own initiative, as a combination of his pre-existing emotional issues and an attachment to Luke. That's the one we discussed already."

They had, and in some ways it was a worse risk than the other one. Constraining Luke's actions would not remove it; not until Luke was converted to the Imperial cause for good. Until then, Tarkin could only do his best to ensure that Vader's attachment to _him_ was strong, and remind Vader as often as possible why they believed in the Imperial cause.

"Second, sir," Natasi continued, "I think Garoche and Rivoche are up to something."

Tarkin frowned, dismayed. He hadn't thought things had descended quite to _that_ level. "Explain."

"They're good Imperials, sir. They know how the game is played. They're here because they want something. You've been distracted by Vader and Luke, and you haven't bothered to offer them any concrete benefit, apart from the opportunity to come to the palace and be called a Prince and Princess sometimes. You haven't even mentioned any favors towards Rivoche's branch of the HoloNet or Garoche's shipping company. And they've played along with that perfectly. They've investigated Luke within careful limits, they've behaved as they seem to feel a Prince and Princess ought to, but they haven't asked you for anything." Natasi crossed her arms. "Which means that, whatever it is that they actually want, they don't want you to know about it yet."

Tarkin considered her, standing there in the spangled room in her elaborate dress. Natasi had never had a family of her own. She had been raised from infancy in a COMPNOR orphanage, and enlisted in the Imperial Academy as soon as she met the requirements - and then, of course, she'd met _him_. Natasi was clever, but she wouldn't instinctively understand the simplest solution to this problem, which was that, sometimes, in spite of whatever problems had come before, people did miss their fathers.

Still, it paid to be cautious.

"Rivoche is sadly incorrigible," he said slowly, thinking it through, "but she's never been particularly subtle. She'll make it known what she wants when she wants it. Garoche may be biding his time, but that's not unusual for him. With all the fuss around Luke, they may both have decided that the best time to angle for favors is later. I don't think it's anything more serious than that, but we can keep an eye on them."

Natasi nodded unhappily. "Yes, sir."

He moved in and kissed her forehead. It would have been good if he could spend the night helping her to relax, after a day like this, but of course tonight was Vader's night. "Get some rest, my dear. You've been hard at work."

"I'll be glad to get out of these shoes, at least," she agreed diffidently.

Tarkin looked down at her feet; he'd noticed the flats she'd picked out, a bright green that matched the color of her dress. Sensible things, by the standards of women's formal shoes, but the toes looked as though they might pinch. "Just think how Rivoche feels in those heels of hers."

That got her to smile, just a little bit. With a bit of luck, Tarkin thought, this _was_ all going to work out.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luke finds allies where he least expects them, and promptly disappoints one; Tarkin notices something strange about Vader's eyes; escape plans are made all over again; Rivoche takes her turn having a tantrum; and Luke finally realizes one kind of power he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: there'll be some more Mentions of Suicide here, but a lot less than last chapter!

Tarkin sat astride Vader's clothed lap in the safety of the meditation chamber, kissing him. Vader had wanted to be affectionate face-to-face, unmasked, and that was always a challenge logistically, but they found their ways. Sooner or later Tarkin would have to untangle himself from the afterglow and return to his actual bed, but he didn't want to leave. None of the problems caused by Luke and Exegol had been fixed yet, but they were working at them together, and that was the important thing.

He had liked tonight's dinner, fractious as it was: him and Vader and Natasi and a little cluster of descendants around them. It felt like a thing that had been missing from his life until now.

Presently he pulled back and gazed into Vader's eyes. There was something different about them; he'd had that thought fleetingly over the comms, a few days ago, and he'd had it again as soon as Vader unmasked himself. But he couldn't put his finger on it. Perhaps if he looked very closely...

"Oh," he said, working it out. "Vader - did you know your eyes are changing color?"

"They are what?" said Vader, perturbed.

"It's not immediately obvious," said Tarkin. "You have to look closely. But there are little flecks of blue in them now." Just tiny ones, like flecks of impurity in a jewel.

Vader frowned. Despite all the injuries, his face under the mask had always been surprisingly expressive, very far from the dour warrior's face that one might imagine. "I did not know."

Tarkin sat back. "It's the Force, isn't it? Your eyes used to be blue. I wasn't sure if some Force effect had turned them gold, or if it was an effect of one of your injuries somehow."

Palpatine's eyes had changed the same way, at the end of the Clone War. It was something Vader and Palpatine had in common. Though, Palpatine had secretly been a Sith Lord even before that point, and he'd been injured confronting the Jedi... So there were too many unknowns to deduce a cause for sure.

"It is the Dark Side. Every Sith's eyes turn that color when they fall."

"Then the fact that they can change _back..._ "

Tarkin reached out and ran his fingertips affectionately down Vader's temple. Only the lightest touch; Vader's ravaged body couldn't take more. He had wondered for quite some time, long before the coup, if the Dark Side was truly a healthy thing for Vader. Neap had said, while they prepared for the Exegol mission, that the Dark Side increased Vader's risks; it was a destructive power that could easily become self-destructive, turned against its wielder, if it lacked another outlet. And it wasn't as though Vader hadn't been powerful all his life; the Dark Side might not be as necessary as he believed it was.

So perhaps Vader letting go of the Dark Side, partway at least, might not be a bad thing for him. Perhaps it wouldn't affect his other duties and his interests in the Empire.

Or perhaps that wasn't even what he was doing. Perhaps this was specific to the Sith. Vader had stated very clearly, on Exegol, that he wanted the whole Sith Order to end with him. And according to Neap, there had been some sort of powerful magic happening on that world - Tarkin didn't really understand it, but there had been a ritual involving the precise nature of the Dark Side and the current Sith master's relationship to it. Vader had disrupted that ritual and scattered the cultists involved, and then Natasi had finished things off by destroying the planet. Perhaps Vader was as thoroughly on the Dark Side before, but his manner of using it was no longer under the previous Sith masters' control. Perhaps that was enough to explain the change.

Yet... this also coincided with Luke's arrival. And Luke, however untrained, was on the Light Side.

If this was _Luke's_ influence, it did not bode well.

Vader looked concerned. Tarkin didn't know how much of his thought process, at this moment, was perceptible to Vader. Vader had only just found out about this now; he might be considering the exact same range of possibilities himself, with just as little idea of which one was true.

"I am on the Dark Side," Vader said, "as before. It is not possible for that to change."

Tarkin leaned in and kissed his brow. "But you don't have to be a Sith, not if you don't want to. Your master's gone; you could find some other way of using the Dark Side that suits you better."

Vader gave him a long, uncertain look.

This was the worst thing about loving a mind-reader, actually. Tarkin wanted to embody confidence and strength. With a lover like Natasi, even when she felt uncertain, Tarkin could provide the necessary support. He could hide his doubts so effortlessly that he was barely aware of them himself. Vader would not let him get away with that. Vader would _see_ when Tarkin doubted him.

At last Vader reached up and cupped Tarkin's face in a gloved hand. His eyes were wide and pained and sincere.

"I am yours," he said, and Tarkin felt the small flutter that he always did; it was a term of endearment that would have been forbidden while Palpatine lived. "Stay a little longer."

And that was what Tarkin wanted to do, of course. He shifted closer in on Vader's lap, and he kissed him again.

*

Luke's guest room at the Imperial Palace was lavish, even more than his room at Fortress Vader. The soft carpet and stark walls were black, but the effect was softened here - mixed with other, subtle, jewel-like colors, gold and blue and green. It was almost soothing. There was a ton of space: a great big bed, a low coffee table with elegant chairs, a couch, some expensive electronic equipment. A closet big enough to walk around in, and more chests of drawers than Luke knew what to do with. Why would a guest in a palace need to bring enough stuff to even bother with those? He only had his handful of Imperial outfits, and they took up maybe two drawers total.

A pair of Royal Guards stood just outside the door, of course, holding their long pikes upright. Luke was sure that, if he asked anybody, they'd say it was for Luke's protection. But he knew what they were really for. Fortunately, nobody had put any guards _inside_ the room.

He hadn't gotten undressed or ready for bed yet. He didn't feel tired enough. He'd taken off his boots, but he lay on his back on top of the blue-green-black duvet, fully clothed, staring at the black ceiling. There were little gold and silvery accents set into the ceiling, the way there'd been in parts of the dining hall, looking like stars. He couldn't quite relax, and he didn't know what to do with himself.

Just as he was starting to think that this was ridiculous, and that he should at least try to do something, the door chimed.

Luke sat up, brushing himself off. "Yeah, come in."

The door unlocked, and Garoche and Rivoche swept into the room.

"Hello, stepbrother," Rivoche announced airily. She was holding another glass of wine, and she strode to Luke like this was a room where she felt perfectly at home. Garoche followed her at a politer distance, and the door sealed itself behind them again. "I thought we ought to get to know each other, without anyone's fathers or mistresses in the way. Now that we're family. Do you mind if I sit here?"

"Sure," said Luke, as she gestured to the edge of the bed. He wasn't sure yet what he thought about these two, but it was better than staring at the ceiling alone. She sat down beside him. Garoche perched a few feet away on the couch, like a chaperone.

Rivoche took a tiny sip of the wine. She was wobbling a little, Luke noticed; she looked tipsy. But she didn't _feel_ tipsy, somehow. "This stuff is really splendid. At least that's one thing you can say about the Imperial Palace; it might be run by the most execrable fathers in the galaxy, but they do get all the good vintages."

Garoche shook his head in a kind of exasperated affection. "Just be careful, Riv. You're nearing the point of having had too much."

"Which only means I haven't had too much _yet,_ " said Rivoche.

"I don't know too much about wine," Luke confessed - as if she didn't know that already. "Honestly, the ones at dinner didn't even taste good."

"It's not about tasting _good_ the way fruit juice or suchlike would taste good. It's about developing a more sophisticated palate."

Luke raised his eyebrows. "Learning to like unlikeable things?"

"Yes, that's our whole _mission_ here, obviously." Rivoche looked at him sidelong. "Is your father listening to us while we insult him, or is he off with his co-emperor again?"

Luke blushed a little less than last time. "No, the mental bond's closed right now."

"Well, that's a relief. Anyways, I like wine. I could tell you all about wine if you want, but I supposed you wouldn't trust me after earlier, would you?" She grinned rakishly.

"'Course not," said Luke, grinning back. He thought he was starting to understand Rivoche. She _liked_ being rakish and obnoxious - plenty of people in the Rebellion were like that, in small ways, but being an Imperial gave her more room for it. Rebels would start losing friends if they got too mean, but in the Empire, they probably thought being mean was a sign of strength.

"Smart boy." Rivoche chuckled companionably. "You didn't even know about swirling wine to aerate it! You thought I was checking for poison. Although I actually can do that, you know. I am _very_ interested in poison. As a topic." She hiccuped slightly.

"What?" said Luke, blinking.

"Not this again." Garoche took out a datapad from his pocket and started to fiddle with it, distancing himself from his sister's antics. "Haven't you already scared the poor boy enough?"

"Of course I don't actually poison people," Rivoche protested. "I'm just fascinated by the idea of it, the history of it. There's something so compelling about the idea that someone could willingly let something in and not realize it will hurt them. Poison is used against one's rivals in certain sectors of the Empire, you know. A girl has to be on her guard."

Garoche looked up at Luke, swaying an extremely small amount himself. Was he drunk, too? "Do you mind if I play my game?" he said. "She'll go on about this for hours if you let her, and I've heard it all before."

"Sure, go ahead," said Luke. He liked games, and he was a little bit curious despite himself.

Garoche clicked a few buttons and started up an old military flying game. Luke vaguely recognized it one of the arcades in Anchorhead. It was a noisy game, with a lot of _ping_ s and _whoosh_ es, but Luke didn't mind noise. Garoche had left the Imperial military; Luke wondered if this was nostalgic for him.

Rivoche rolled her eyes at her brother, and then leaned forward, showing Luke one of the rings she wore. It was a little bigger than the others, emblazoned with something that looked like a family crest. "Do you see this?" she said, lowering her voice slightly. "It's got a sneaky, built-in poison detector. If I'm not sure of the company I'm keeping, I can use it to make sure whatever I'm eating or drinking is safe. Do you want to see how it works?"

"Sure," said Luke. He loved gadgets.

"Here, you have to look closely," said Rivoche, and she leaned in, lifting up the wine glass to demonstrate. Luke had a strange feeling for a moment - a wave of mistrust. Was this going to be another trick after all? Was she going to splash him on the face or tell him that the tiny letters on the ring spelled _gullible,_ or something? He was suddenly sure it was a trick.

On impulse, he leaned in anyway.

She was taller than him, and so close now that there was barely any room between their faces as she looked down at him. A bit of her hair flopped down, the beads in it clacking, obscuring her face from anyone but Luke. She raised the wine glass with her ring finger over it, and she pressed some hidden mechanism in the ring's base. But she wasn't looking at the ring anymore. She was staring, intently, straight at Luke.

"Listen to me carefully," she whispered - Luke had to strain a little to hear her over Garoche's game. "If we stay precisely like this and keep our voices down, no one will be able to hear us or read our lips, no matter where they've put their little microphones. I'd like to drink to our freedom today. Do you understand?"

Luke stared back at her, reeling. _I'd like to drink to our freedom today-_

That was a Rebel code phrase. Rebel agents, undercover in the field, used it to recognize each other.

Suddenly all of the contradictions he'd felt in her mind made sense. He'd been so right and so wrong. It _was_ a trick. But Luke wasn't the one she was tricking. She must have planned this out so carefully, her and Garoche both. Everything from the flying game that drowned out their voices, to the trick with the wine and the ring, to the way she'd done her hair.

They were Rebels, impossibly, _secretly,_ and they'd come for him.

"You don't need a drink for that," he whispered - that was the code phrase's accepted reply. The one that said, _yes, I'm a Rebel too._

"Yes, _obviously._ Luke, with your mental bond, you will be able to tell when Emperor Vader is asleep. Yes?"

Luke nodded.

"There is a small freighter just outside the palace grounds, piloted by an accomplice of ours. That mental bond makes things tricky; you likely can't return to the Rebel base. But you can go wherever else in the galaxy you'd like, and you'll be contacted by Rebel agents for further instructions in time. Once he's asleep, there's a good chance we can get you outside the range of Emperor Vader's abilities before he wakes up. You can escape this place, Luke. Before they break your spirit or turn you into one of them, or send you to do Force knows what in the jungle." She grinned a little; she was telling the truth, she meant every word, but she was just so pleased with herself for getting to dramatically deliver the news. "We're here to rescue you."

His lip trembled as he looked up at her, stricken.

He wanted it so badly. To be free. To go home. Except she wasn't offering him a ride home, was she? Just out to someplace who-knows-where. It was too dangerous for him to be with Leia and Han and all his other friends now, even if he got away.

They were risking so much for him. It was as dangerous as the front line of a real battle, sneaking in and out under the nose of one of the strongest mind-readers in the galaxy, pretending to be his family. It was kind of astonishing they'd even made it this far. If they got caught, they were all dead.

But they were also risking more than their own lives. They were an Imperial Prince and Princess - if they had the ability to slip into the Imperial Family and not be caught right away, then they could pass information to the Rebellion in ways no other deep cover agent ever could. Luke was sure that someone like Leia, hard-nosed and canny, would have wanted them to do that. Instead of risking it all for one guy who couldn't even fight with the Rebellion anymore.

Luke reached up and clasped her hand, gently. Her hand was cold.

"I can't," he whispered.

"What do you mean, you _can't?_ "

"I can't let you do that for me. You're two good Rebel agents. I'm just one. Less than one - I can't fight for the Rebellion anymore; I'm a security risk. I can't let you risk yourselves-"

Rivoche's nostrils flared, angry now. "Luke, I don't think you quite realize who you _are._ You aren't just any Rebel. You're Luke Skywalker, Hero of Yavin. A Jedi. Think of what this means to the Rebellion-"

But he wasn't a Jedi. He was just some kid who was supposed to have been a Jedi, Force-sensitive and untrained and messed up. He might never be trained.

"And," Luke blurted, "I can't leave my father."

It shocked him to hear himself saying it, but it was true. There were kids who killed themselves on Tatooine, but there were kids who escaped in less drastic ways, too. Kids like Luke, longing for the stars, who just dropped everything one night, high-tailed it to the nearest spaceport and took off in the first ship that would have them. Or stowed away. They left notes, most of the time, but that didn't help very much; grown-ups knew how dangerous it was to be young and alone and off-world for the first time, with nothing to your name but the bag you'd packed. It had happened to a family who were close with Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, when Luke was fourteen or so. Luke had seen the terror and grief that took hold, even in parents who'd started out a lot mentally healthier than Darth Vader, almost as bad as if the kid had died.

He knew what would happen to Vader if he left that way, without even stopping to explain. Either Vader would tear the whole galaxy apart looking for him, killing thousands more people, or-

Or Grand Admiral Daala would get her wish.

He couldn't do it.

Rivoche's lip curled. "What in blast are you talking about?"

"I don't know," Luke whispered in a panic - it took effort to keep his voice down to a whisper. He didn't know how he could explain this, even to someone who knew about Vader's problems, and he didn't _want_ Rivoche to know about those. He couldn't come up with a way of saying it that made any sense. "Look, you'd understand if you had a mental bond, it's- I know he's awful, but he _needs_ me-"

Rivoche's face went entirely blank for a moment - Luke had reminded her of something bad. And then she frowned in decision, detaching her hand from his. "Well, we can't speak like this any longer, or it will look suspicious."

Before he could respond, she changed her entire face - like putting on a mask, Luke thought - back to the merry, tipsy, mischievous demeanor she'd had before. She straightened up, threw back her head, and laughed.

"Oh, Luke!" she said, giggling. "You are my new _favorite_ stepbrother! I'm sorry, Garoche; you've been knocked down to second place. I'd rather have the funny little nineteen-year-old Jedi who's so stupid he'll believe anything."

Garoche frowned in concern and turned his game off, standing up. "Riv, are you sure you haven't had enough to drink? This seems uncalled for."

"Oh, enough with you and your concern for what's _called for._ " Rivoche slammed her wine glass down onto a side table, then flung herself dramatically down on the bedspread. "Do you know what, Luke? I'm _very_ glad you aren't a Rebel anymore. Rebels are all idiots, you see. They've all got soft hearts making a mush of where their brains should be, and they'll run around risking their actual lives to save little prey-animal people who don't even want to be saved. I don't think we need a military campaign against the Rebels, do you, Garoche? By all rights they should all already have gotten themselves killed."

" _Riv,_ " Garoche said, more firmly. He walked to the bed and pulled her upright. "Pull yourself together; this is not seemly."

"Hmph." She stood and dusted herself off. "Well, I'm in a mood to go and get even drunker than I already was. Follow me or not; I don't care."

"I'll follow you in just a moment, Riv." Garoche watched tiredly as she flounced out the door, past the Royal Guards. He looked back at Luke, who was sitting bewildered and ashamed of himself on the bed, and sighed. "I apologize on my sister's behalf. We've tried to teach her manners, but it only made matters worse. May I ask you a question?"

"Sure, of course," said Luke. Garoche's careful reserve and Rivoche's outrageousness were opposites, but there was something about the way they worked so seamlessly together. For reasons he could not have explained, it made him miss Leia.

Garoche frowned thoughtfully, and Luke could feel him picking his words with care. Garoche, by himself, couldn't guarantee no one was listening. "You tried to escape from Emperor Vader's fortress recently, I'm told. But now you're talking to an architect about your permanent rooms. What changed?"

Luke shrugged, or tried to shrug. Tried to pass it off as something that wasn't a big deal. His heart hurt. He still wished so badly that he could just walk out of here and be with his friends again.

"I don't know," he said. "I just... I realized staying was going to mess things up, but if I kept trying to leave, it'd mess things up even worse. I know you Imps think it's silly, but I really don't want to hurt anybody. I don't."

Garoche nodded to himself, digesting that. "Luke, has it occurred to you that everyone in this palace is a little afraid of you?"

Luke blinked. "Why?"

"Why indeed. That's what I'd be asking myself, were I in your position. And if I'd decided to stay. You know what Father says about fear, after all." He nodded to Luke, and then turned to go. "You'll see both of us again, I'm sure. Have a good night."

"Goodnight," said Luke, blinking even more.

Luke wasn't scary! It made no sense for anyone to be afraid of him. Sure, he was the Hero of Yavin, but that was because of one lucky shot. He was really just some untrained Jedi kid who couldn't even win an argument.

But... there was the way Oloranti had talked to him. He'd been rude to her, but she couldn't deal with that in the normal way, because he was a prince. Being a prince did give him power, even if he didn't want it to. Power other people might be afraid of.

There was the way Tarkin had handled him with kid gloves, wanting to hear him out about what he thought, promising family outings and tutors and whatever else Luke wanted, within reason. Barely even criticizing him directly. Tarkin had laid little traps in the conversation and made Luke feel useless, but that was the only bad thing he'd done to Luke, so far - even when Luke insulted him to his face. Tarkin could have been much worse. Luke knew that; he remembered Leia's stories.

But Tarkin hadn't treated Luke the way he'd treated Leia, because Tarkin was Vader's lover, and Tarkin knew what Luke meant to Vader.

There was the way Daala had looked at him, too like he wasn't just a captive enemy but an active threat, to be managed and assessed.

All the pieces had been there. Luke had felt them already; he would have put them together eventually. Garoche had only jogged them into place a little sooner.

Luke put one of the big guest bed's pillows, black with a streaky blue and gold pattern, onto his lap and hugged it. He didn't understand what they thought he'd _do._ It had something to do with him being important to Vader. It had something to do with how unhappy Vader was - it must, because Daala had gone for that topic right away; she'd gone out of her way to impress on him that Vader wasn't a victim anymore. She'd warned him in the strongest terms that he wouldn't like an Empire that had a man like Vader in charge.

They were afraid he was going to change Vader's mind.

They thought he was going to turn Vader against the rest of the Empire.

Luke squeezed the pillow in his hands until he thought the seams might pop.

" _How?_ " he said to the air. He'd tried reasoning with Vader already. He'd tried telling Vader that the Empire killed his friends. Luke wanted to turn his father against the Empire - of course he did! That would solve all of the problems at once. The Empire would fall. They'd get the Republic back. Luke could see his friends again. He'd have a father who was a hero again. But Vader didn't listen to him. Vader agreed with Tarkin - he thought the Empire was good. How the heck did they think Luke would get through to him?

There must be a way.

If there wasn't one, they wouldn't have all been so scared.

Luke took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind.

"Ben?" he asked the air, reaching out. Ben had known Luke's father once; he might understand.

Nothing happened, of course.

Luke flopped onto his back and looked at the ceiling again. He didn't think he was getting to sleep anytime soon.

After a little while, he felt something. Not Ben, but Vader, easing the mental bond back open. Luke reached out - his father felt tired and content, or as content as he ever got. That was all. Nothing icky.

_Father?_ he asked.

Vader looked back at his mind with parental fondness. _You should be asleep._

_Can I ask you something?_

_Anything._

Luke took a breath. He needed to be really sure what he was asking. He needed to ask it in the right way.

_Why do you want me to be here, around you? What is it that you want me to do?_

_I want you to be my son,_ said Vader, impatient, like it should be obvious.

_Yeah, but what does that mean, exactly? What do you want me to do to be your son the right way?_

Vader seemed taken aback by the question. For several seconds there was no answer - but Luke could feel him, reluctantly gathering himself to make one.

_I want you not to be ashamed of me,_ Vader said at last, _but to be proud of your role. You are a prince - it is your rightful due. I want you to enjoy that, rather than fighting it. I want us to grow to know each other. I want to have time with you, as I was denied in your earlier life. I want us to grow to a point where we no longer worry we will harm each other, where it is easy. In time, I would like to present you publicly to the Empire as my son._

Luke took some deep careful breaths, digesting all that. It was less than he'd feared. Vader didn't want him to hurt anybody or turn to the Dark Side. He didn't even need Luke to agree with him, politically, not the way Tarkin did. He just wanted Luke to hang out with him for the rest of his life, and acknowledge him, and love him.

Those were still dangerous things. Things that would bring Luke a step closer to losing himself, forgetting what he really believed in. But he already cared about his father, even if he didn't exactly want to. He'd found that out today.

And the rest of the things Vader wanted - they might be worth it. Maybe. If Luke could find a way to use them for good.

_Do you want those things, my son?_ Vader asked after a pause - hesitantly. He knew Luke didn't want to be here. But he didn't want to let Luke go. Luke could understand that now, a little better than before.

_I'm thinking about it,_ said Luke. He was tired and a little overwhelmed. This wasn't the time to try to make a bargain. If Luke was going to do that, he needed a clear head, and he needed to be talking to Vader face to face. Not mind to mind, like this, where it was hard to be sure he was making the right thought in the right shape, getting across exactly what he intended to.

Vader withdrew a little, not unhappily. Recognizing that this wasn't the time to talk more. _Goodnight, my son._

_Goodnight, father._

Luke looked at the ceiling, holding his pillow, as the sense of Vader's presence faded to its usual background level. He thought he should probably get into his pajamas, change his bandages, brush his teeth. He needed to sleep on this. He needed to be absolutely sure.

But Luke was pretty sure he knew, already, what he was going to have to do.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luke puts on his jackboots, skips breakfast, makes a bargain, triggers his father harder than anything's triggered Vader yet in the rest of this story, discovers what secretly lies in the unfinished levels of the palace, and somehow lives to tell the tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up, there are Feelings Here >:-D

The next morning, Luke woke up determined. He and Garoche and Rivoche were supposed to explore Coruscant today, but it was an hour or two before they were supposed to get started with that, and Luke hadn't heard anything concrete yet about breakfast. He had lots of time. Before he saw his step-siblings again, there was something else he needed to do.

He washed and dried himself carefully. His burns were fading, but he still had to use a little of the bacta salve - M4 had been stern with him about that. When that was done, he put on another of his Imperial outfits. This one was blue and gold; it brought out his eyes. It came with a long cape that dusted the ground, and it had a high collar in an especially bright gold. The collar made Luke look like a pet, he thought sourly, but that was just his fears getting the better of him.

With everything on but the boots, Luke looked at himself in the mirror. He wondered what Leia would think of him if she could see him now. Maybe Leia would think he was betraying her. Or - not that. Leia didn't admit when she took things personally like that. Leia would say he was betraying the _cause._ Allying himself with the same people who'd done all those awful things to her. Maybe that was what he was doing. He didn't know.

He just knew it was what he had to do.

He took some really long, slow, deep breaths. He wished he had more training - he wished Ben had time to tell him anything that didn't boil down to _take deep breaths and reach out with your feelings_. But he had what he had.

He reached out.

_Father?_ he said. He could feel that Vader was nearby and oddly peaceful. _Are you awake?_

There was a small startle in Vader's mind, but it quickly subsided. _I am now._

Oops. Luke hadn't realized that his mental voice was powerful enough to wake Vader up out of a dead sleep. _Sorry, father. I... wanted to talk to you._

A pause. _Yes. The guards will show you to me._

Luke sighed his breath out, slowly and deliberately. He braced himself.

He put on the jackboots.

His door opened when he pushed the button, and he nodded to the Royal Guards. "My father wants to see me," he said. And that was all it took; they escorted him to another of the guest rooms. It was decorated a lot like the one where Luke had been sleeping, the same blacks and blues and greens, but without most of the furniture. Vader might have been asleep a minute ago, but he was sitting up now, fully suited, on a padded chair inside some kind of weird enclosure - a jagged black shell, pure white on the inside.

"Son," said Vader, inclining his helmeted head in greeting.

"Father," said Luke, nodding back.

"You had something to tell me."

Luke nodded again, feeling something strange and fatalistic. He'd made his decision. He couldn't back out now, not without Vader _noticing._

"You told me," said Luke, "last night. What you want me to do to be your son. But I'm not doing any of those things yet, am I? Not the way you want me to."

Vader hesitated. "You are learning. You will come around to it in time."

"Is that what you're telling yourself?"

Luke looked him in the eye, or as close as he could get to it while his father wore that awful mask. He looked him in those big red-black curves that looked like eyes. He had to stay steady for this, take his deep breaths, remember his intent. He couldn't back down.

"I care about you, father," Luke continued. "I realized that last night. I want to have a father. I want you to be okay. I want to help you. But right now you're asking the impossible. You're asking me to pretend to be happy here, with you and Emperor Tarkin, when you two are still killing my friends. If I stopped caring about that, I'd be betraying myself. I can't do it." He took a deep, shaky breath. "So I want to make a bargain with you."

"What?" said Vader. Luke felt a deep discomfort in his father's mind, deeper than he'd expected. There was nothing else to do about it, though. There were no other good options left besides this one. Luke hadn't wanted to be here, but he'd turned down escape. Luke had power - people feared him here. People _needed_ him here.

Luke couldn't overthrow the Empire all by himself, no matter how many tantrums he threw. But he could use the power he had. He could  stay on his own terms.

"I'll be your son," said Luke, as steadily as he could. "I won't let you make me hurt anybody, but I'll go where you want me to go. Wear what you want me to wear. Eat what you want me to eat. Use the Force how you want me to use it. I'll stop calling myself your prisoner; I'll make myself happy being a prince here, even if that's not what I wanted to be. But you have to do something for me in return."

Vader stood up from his padded chair. Vader didn't seem to like this at all. "Son, this is-"

"Let me finish," Luke demanded, holding out a hand. To his surprise, Vader paused. "Draw up a truce with the Rebels, father. That's what I'm asking of you. We talked about it on Mustafar. If they come after you, you can defend yourself. But they've got two systems to themselves now. Let them stay there. Let them live peacefully the way they want to live, instead of fighting to make them submit to you. Make it a-an autonomous territory, like Hutt Space. Don't my friends deserve more rights than a Hutt?"

He had agonized over this, asking himself what exactly he could demand. Luke wanted for the Rebels to be in charge, for the galaxy to be a Republic again. He could imagine Leia's voice in his ear, reminding him that so many more than two systems deserved to be free. But Vader wouldn't ever be okay with that. A galaxy ruled by the Rebels might not even be safe for him. Luke had to ask for something small enough that Vader could actually, plausibly give it to him. He couldn't ask for something he didn't genuinely need, because Vader would feel that in his mind. But whatever he asked for, it had to be big enough to be worth it. He knew he could only do this once. He was trading away the whole rest of his measly, should-have-been-a-Jedi little life.

Vader's voice was tense. "I do not have that power, Luke. I told you, I was removed from command."

"Then get Emperor Tarkin to do it. He listens to you. Or wait until you're ready to be Emperor again, and I'll wait, too. But I need you to tell me that you'll do this for me, father. I can't live with myself, staying in a place like this, unless I know my friends will be okay."

His heart was in his throat. Vader would feel that he meant all of this, wholeheartedly. Vader would have to mean what he said in return, too. Luke would feel it if he made a promise that he didn't mean to keep.

On impulse, Luke sank to one knee. Genuflecting to his father, as he had never done for any Emperor before.

The explosion of fear and rage that he felt from Vader, a second later, was nothing like what he'd expected at all.

*

Vader stared down at his son kneeling before him - at Luke's blue eyes wide and pained and horribly sincere - and everything became clear all at once.

Vader had knelt like this once before, offering his whole life to the most powerful man in the galaxy, knowing that it would compromise something fundamental about him, but not knowing what else he could do. He had said very nearly some of these same words.

_I can't live with myself unless my friends are okay,_ Luke had said.

_Just help me save Padmé,_ echoed something in Vader's memory. _I can't live without her._

Vader was a fool. He had promised himself that he wouldn't hurt Luke. But he had hurt Luke from the very beginning. He'd taken him away from the people he loved, trapped him in a place that he hated instead. He'd tried to make Luke betray who and what he believed in. That had been obvious all along. Vader only hadn't wanted to see.

He had been angry, before, when Luke brought up the Rebels. He had not wanted the war brought in to his fortress, his family; he had wanted Luke to just forget it. But that was an impossible, hurtful thing to ask. He understood now.

"No," Vader said, his voice audibly cracking even through the mask.

Luke looked up, startled and offended. "No? But-"

"No one should ever have to make that choice." Vader gestured impatiently. "Get up. You should not be with me. I will give you your truce. And then I will put you on a ship, one that the Empire cannot trace, and I will send you back to the Rebel base where you belong."

"But- Father-" Luke swayed to his feet, bewildered. Strangely reluctant, even though this was what he'd wanted all along. "Will I be able to see you again? Just- call and make sure you're okay? Or-"

"You must not." Vader was dizzily certain of it. If he could do this to Luke, then Luke needed not to see him ever again. "I should not have ever begun this. I am not your father. Your father is dead."

"No!" Luke said. He stomped his foot like a child. "You know that's not true."

"Your father burned to death on the day of your birth. I am not even called by his name."

He had no idea what he would do without Luke, but that was not relevant. Maybe he would still want to live, just knowing Luke was out there somewhere, living in peace. Maybe that would be enough. Or maybe it wouldn't. But either option was better than _this_.

"Yes, you are!" Luke shouted, making his hands into fists. Vader could feel something building there, under Luke's fearful bewilderment. A stubborn will as strong, for all its lightness, as Vader's own. "You are my father, Anakin Skywalker. You know I'm you're son, or you wouldn't have dropped everything to come get me as soon as you knew. You remembered your mother. You remembered _my_ mother. You were a Jedi who was born a slave. You fought with Obi-Wan Kenobi in the Clone Wars. You hate the Dark Side - don't try to tell me you don't. The Emperor turned you to it and he tried to be your master but you killed him. You took the whole Dark Side away from him, and you swore that there wouldn't be any more Sith. You're not dead. You're the same man who brought me into the world. You only don't want to admit it, and I don't know _why._ I don't know what happened, because you won't _tell me,_ but-"

Vader grabbed one of those childish fists in his own, gloved, mechanical hand.

"Then I will _show_ you," he growled. And he dragged Luke, stumbling and protesting, out of the room.

*

Luke had no idea what was going on. He'd expected his bargain might make Vader uncomfortable, but not like _this._ Their footsteps echoed in the dark halls, Vader's rapid and heavy, Luke's uneven as he scrambled to keep up. The few palace servants who were out in the halls this early took one look at them and quickly ducked away.

Vader pulled him into a black turbolift and they went down.

The lift was uncomfortably silent. Luke felt queasy. He wasn't sure what Vader was going to show him; he wasn't even sure Vader was in his right mind now. Luke would never have thought, in a million years, that he'd ever wish Emperor Tarkin was with him, but he was starting to slightly wish Tarkin was here. Tarkin was Vader's boyfriend, right? Tarkin had seen him in mental health distress before. Tarkin could talk him out of _destructive impulses._ Tarkin might know what to do.

But Tarkin wasn't here, and Luke knew better, deep down, than to ask for him.

He had felt, ever since he entered the Imperial Palace, that something was wrong here. Something rotten, besides the obvious tyranny, lurked under its shining dark surface. This turbolift was taking them down into it now.

Vader clutched his wrist so hard it hurt. Vader's hands didn't even feel human. The lift slowed, and Luke held his breath, afraid of what he might be about to see.

The lift doors opened.

Vader roughly dragged Luke out of the lift, and into a space that was just a hall. The walls were beige. It looked different from the Palace's upper floors in almost every way. From the width of the hallway, the kinds of doors and the tiling on the floor. And it was all dusty, stained, cobwebbed. Most of the lights had burned out long ago; the few that were left flickered weakly. That lift allowed people like Vader to go down here whenever they wanted to, but hardly anybody ever did.

Luke didn't know what he was looking at, but he could feel the palace's wrongness, stronger than ever. The wrongness was _here._

"This palace," said Vader, releasing Luke's hand and breaking the silence, "was once the Jedi Temple."

"I knew tha-" Luke started to protest, and then he put two and two together, and his mouth dropped open.

This was a hallway from the Jedi Temple. The Empire had killed all the Jedi, but they'd never destroyed or remodeled this level; they'd killed everyone, and then they'd just _left_ it like this.

"If Anakin Skywalker was your father, you would have grown up here," said Vader. "You might not have liked that; it was a strict way of life. There was no room for unruly emotions like yours. The people in control of the Council, they made... many mistakes. Many. But they did not deserve death." Vader paused, and then added, more vehemently, "I killed them all. Even the children."

Luke took shaky breaths. Vader had said he would show Luke how he'd turned to the Dark Side. Why he wasn't Anakin anymore. He could feel roughly what was going on in Vader's head, even if most of it didn't make sense. When Luke asked about this, before, Vader had not answered, because he feared that the truth was too much. It would push Luke away, when all Vader wanted was to make Luke stay. But somehow the bargain Luke tried to make had flipped some awful switch in his father's head, and now pushing him away seemed like a good idea.

But Luke already knew that Vader had hunted down the Jedi. He hadn't personally killed them all - Luke had paid enough attention in history class to know _that;_ the clone army killed most of them - but he'd killed enough, and he'd made it his mission to keep killing them. It made sense that he felt responsible for them all.

It didn't tell Luke what he wanted to know.

"This should have been your inheritance," Vader continued. "You should have had other Force-sensitives around you. You should have been trained. _I_ took that from you. Not Obi-Wan. I have harmed you since the day you were born."

Luke gingerly put his hand to the wall. He reached out with his feelings. He half-expected something awful to leap out at him. More ghosts, like Ben. But there weren't any ghosts. There was only an old, weary, reverberating pain.

"Why, father?" he asked. That was what he actually wanted to know. "Why did you kill them?"

Vader's voice was bitter. "There was no reason."

But Luke could feel it was more complicated than that. The feelings in Vader's mind were so bright and loud. Vader had hated the Jedi once; he'd felt that they'd wronged him. And he'd found out, only recently, that this was not quite true.

"What did they do to you?" Luke pressed.

"Nothing," Vader snapped.

Luke looked down the corridor, feeling haunted. Anakin Skywalker must have walked these halls so many times. He and Ben and whatever friends they'd had. Children, just at the start of their training, must have run through these halls. Luke didn't see or hear it but he could imagine it, their footsteps, their giggling laughter. At the end of the corridor, he could see the outline of something that must have once been a fountain, the basin long drained of water and scaled over.

He turned to face Vader fully. "But something happened. You don't just wake up one day on the Dark Side. Something happened that made you decide to fall, or you fell by mistake, or someone convinced you to do it." Luke swallowed hard. "Nothing about where I come from makes any sense to me. It hasn't since you told me you were my father. If I'm going to leave, can you let me leave knowing the truth?"

Luke waited it out. One breath. Another.

"Your mother was going to die," said Vader at last. "I foresaw it. In my visions. She would die in childbirth, and I would lose you both."

Luke's eyes widened, but he stayed silent.  He waited. Vader was struggling to find the words.

"The Jedi," said Vader, "did not understand. They did not want me to be with her to begin with. And the Emperor had... gained my trust." There was more to it than that, Luke could feel; there was a bigger hurt here about Palpatine, but Vader couldn't explain it now. "He convinced me that there was only one way to save her. And that was by swearing myself to him. Turning to the Dark Side. Destroying the Jedi."

Luke took a small step backward, involuntarily, as that sank in.

This was too much. It was worse than knowing Vader wanted to die.  Vader had done all of this, decided that two particular lives were worth more to him than everything else in the world put together, murdered all these thousands of people and turned to the Dark Side-

And he'd done it, partly, for _Luke._

Luke steadied himself against the dusty wall, and his mind raced as he tried to imagine what must have happened. This was awful, but it still didn't make any sense. So Vader had done all that, so he'd killed everybody to save Luke and his mother, but then it hadn't even worked, because Luke's mother had died! And Vader had thought Luke was dead, too! And he'd stayed on the Dark Side _anyway,_ for some stupid reason, and kept killing people, because-

Because it was too late.

Because Anakin, the slave boy from Tatooine, had sworn himself to another master. One who'd done to him all of those horrible things that Luke was supposed to pray he didn't understand. One he hadn't known how to get rid of, not until almost twenty years later when he had the right help. And everything else that had ever mattered to him was gone.

"But it did not save either of you,"  said Vader. His strange deep voice was shaking. "Your mother died. My master told me I had killed her; it is possible I did. I killed Anakin Skywalker. I destroyed who he was and everything he ever cared for. Stay, and I will destroy you, too. _"_

Luke closed his eyes. He thought he might be shaking, too. He didn't know what to say, so he took a deep breath.

He breathed in the faint echo of the Light Side, of what this place had used to be. He breathed the Dark Side out.

A thought distracted him, something troubling but small enough that he did know how to say it, and he opened his eyes, looking down the long corridor at that fountain. "It's not right for all of this to just... be down here like this. I could feel it the whole time I was here at the palace. I didn't know what it was, but it felt _wrong_ \- can't you feel that?"

"Everything here is wrong," Vader snapped.

"If there's something left of the Jedi Temple, it shouldn't just hide down here gathering dust. It should be-" He hesitated. If these halls hadn't really been touched, there might be Jedi knowledge still stored here. Luke might be able to learn from it, if he explored here, the way he'd wanted to in those ruins on Vrogas Vas. But something felt wrong to him about that. This wasn't some library for Luke to rifle through, not even if he'd once been meant to live here. Not if he didn't first pay the right respects. This was a graveyard.

"There should be a memorial," he concluded, looking back up at his father. "People should know what happened."

Vader was silent.

Luke looked around at the place, trying to imagine what it would look like if it was restored, all the lights working again, all the dust cleaned away. The fountain working again. Somber little placards on the walls, explaining how the Jedi had lived and what they'd believed. That seemed right to him. He had only the haziest idea of what any of the placards would say.

His gaze fell on a part of the floor that wasn't quite as dusty as the rest, one that looked like a few people had still walked back and forth on it every once in a while. It made a rough path leading to one of the little doors. Luke followed it, wary and curious. It would make sense if Vader was one of the people who still came down here every once in a while. Vader had a connection to this place. And, if he'd made a snap decision to bring Luke down to this level, it made sense that he'd do it by the same route - on the same turbolift - that he usually did, to get to whatever part of it he visited most.

"What's in here?" Luke asked, putting his hand on the panel by the door.

"Do not go in there," said Vader, but there was no sense of danger. Just something personal, something he was ashamed of.

Impulsively, Luke pressed the button to open it.

There was nothing inside. Just a small, empty room. It looked the same as the hallway, pretty much. There was the faint outline of some big piece of furniture that must have been there until recently, but nothing else.

Luke looked at Vader questioningly.

"On my visits to the palace," said Vader reluctantly, "while the old Emperor lived, this was where I slept."

Luke let out his breath. Of course it was. Vader's master had kept him on the Dark Side. He would have taken any chance to remind Vader that he'd already destroyed everything that pulled him to the light. To keep him buried in his own regrets, thinking it was too late for him. Alone.

But he wasn't alone. He had Tarkin, and that single real connection, even to an awful person, was why he'd been able to overthrow Palpatine.

And now he had Luke.

"Go, my son," said Vader, as Luke turned back to face him fully. "You have your answers. Leave me."

"No," said Luke.

Here is what Luke knew about Darth Vader:

He was Luke's father.

There was good in him.

Luke was surprised how calm his own voice sounded. He walked back to Vader and cupped Vader's masked face in one hand. He was sure of this now. This was his destiny. Vader stiffened, but he didn't pull away.

_You can come back from this,_ Ben had said, after Luke's own tiny turn to the Dark Side. That had been so small, barely a turn at all compared to what Vader had done. But Luke suspected Vader needed to hear the same thing.

"I'm not leaving you," he said. " You are my father, Anakin Skywalker, a Jedi. You didn't die - you were only made to believe you did. You didn't kill my mother. You didn't destroy me before, and you won't now. I won't let you keep destroying the galaxy. And I won't let you destroy yourself."

He could feel Vader fighting to believe it, not even sure if he wanted to believe it or not. So Luke pushed, clumsily, at their mental bond. He tried to send over the feeling he had, the certainty. The way he cared for his father even when everyone, Rebels and Imperials alike, seemed to think he shouldn't.

He felt the moment it worked, like a dam breaking. Vader hesitantly reached back, touching Luke's face with his heavy glove.

"I will give you your truce, my son," he said. "I will give you anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (coming up, next chapter, tarkin's going to be none too pleased about this...)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all of Emperor Tarkin's mistakes, in literally all of his important relationships, come back to haunt him at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific warnings here - unless "bad guys kinda threatening to kill each other" is a trigger for you - but everyone is terrible and this chapter is nothing but pain.

Emperor Tarkin was beginning to feel that something was wrong.

Garoche, Rivoche, and Luke were supposed to get into a tour skiff early today, eat breakfast in an expensive café near the palace, and then roam the city together. But the skiff was waiting by the palace's doors, and none of the three of them had shown up yet. Tarkin wasn't able to stand there and wait for them himself - he had palace business today. All he could do was sends his guards to inquire after them, and keep half an eye on the problem while he did the usual meetings with officials and so on.

According to the guards, Luke had left his room early in the morning to discuss something with Vader. The two of them had gone deeper into the palace, with Vader looking distressed about something, and had not yet emerged. As for Garoche and Rivoche, he hadn't heard anything yet. It had only been a few minutes since he sent the guards to check on them. Tarkin was known for being exacting about schedules, and he didn't like this.

So when an aide tiptoed to his side, in the throne room, and whispered that there was a message from Emperor Vader - that Vader had something urgent to discuss - Tarkin wasted no time in dismissing the official he was currently talking to, preparing his aides to postpone the next few meetings, and bracing himself for whatever this was.

By the time Vader strode into the room, with Luke at his side, Tarkin was alone. He'd dismissed the guards. He sat in his throne in his Imperial regalia, perfectly straight and composed and commanding. Vader would see through that facade, but Tarkin had always felt it was important to keep up appearances regardless. The will not to be cowed, not to act on one's fear, was as vital for dealing with Vader as the actual fear.

"Vader," he said, nodding politely. "What's the trouble?"

Vader came to a halt, and he loomed over the throne in a way Tarkin did not like. It didn't look like an intimidation attempt, but something stranger, for Vader. As if he'd come almost all the way up to Tarkin and then, uncharacteristically, _paused._ Bracing himself for something painful. Luke stood at a remove, visibly nervous.

"I have something to discuss," said Vader. "You will dislike it, but it is necessary."

Tarkin stood up out of his throne. He disliked this already, whatever it was, but he would not show fear. Vader was an apex predator. Flee or show one's belly, and he'd give chase. But treat him as an equal, stand up to him just enough to make him stop and think, and he could be reasoned with. Tarkin had always prided himself on the ability to do such things.

"Well, then," he said. "Discuss it."

"I wish to draw up a truce with the Rebel Alliance."

Tarkin drew himself up to his full height, appalled. "Yes, what a splendid idea. Let's take this group of terrorists who have already killed millions of people with the express aim of overthrowing our government, and let's try to make _friends_ with them. I'm sure every one of their attacks thus far has merely been a _misunderstanding-_ "

"Luke is my son," Vader snapped. "Do you kill your children's friends?"

"If they tried to kill me first, yes, of course I do." Tarkin narrowed his eyes at Luke and Vader. He had known Luke might try something like this. He only hadn't imagined it could happen, and succeed, so _quickly._ Hadn't Vader been on Tarkin's side as recently as dinner yesterday? "Luke put you up to this."

"It was Luke's suggestion, but I am requesting it for my own reasons." Vader looked, for a brief moment, between Luke and Tarkin; but Luke didn't do much but stand there, attentive and nervous. "I swore I would not harm my son. None of the three of us would ever hurt each other again. But I have harmed him from the very beginning. Making him sit by our side and watch while we destroy everyone he loves; that is harm. If we do that to him, we are no better than my master was to me."

Tarkin looked at Luke more closely. He had noticed this irony himself, of course; the way Vader had kidnapped his own son while simultaneously insisting he wouldn't harm him. Vader had finally got that through his head, it seemed. But it was Luke's doing. And Luke had done it for a reason.

"Is that what you convinced him of?" he said - to Luke, not Vader. "How clever. But tell me this: if you can't bear to be family with people who are harming your friends, why ask for a truce? A complicated political concession that won't even work, because the Rebels won't abide by it? Why not simply ask to go home? We can send you back to your Rebel base, since you plainly loathe being here."

Vader wouldn't want Luke to go home, of course, but never mind. He did not immediately voice an objection. At this point, Tarkin was running damage control.

Luke stood his ground; his blue eyes were wide and sincere. Tarkin had underestimated this boy. "No, Your Highness. I decided to stay. I don't like the Empire, but this is my family."

He had hardly even wavered at the suggestion that Tarkin would send him back home. Vader must have offered him that already, Tarkin supposed. And he must have already had this plan in his mind.

Tarkin took a step toward Luke, half-circling him. "I'm sure that's what you told him. I'm sure you do want to stay, now that you've discovered the emotional weak points in your father that will get you what you want from him. Normally he'd be too intelligent to see through a ploy like yours, but perhaps now you've worked out how easily he's been manipulated in the past, and how unstable he is at the current moment. Tell me, Luke, for all of Vader's talk of us not harming each other, have _you_ ever agreed not to harm _him?_ "

He could hear Vader's breath; even without the Force, he could _feel_ how closely Vader was watching him. But he wanted Vader to watch. Vader should listen to what he was saying, too. Vader should think about how easily he could be led astray.

Luke's gaze was steady. There was something a little otherworldly about him, despite his youth and smallness and fear. There had been an air like that, once, around many of the Jedi, when they thought they were seeing into truths others couldn't.

"I think it's the Dark Side that harms him, Your Highness," said Luke. "I think it's being in the Empire that harms him. You know that about him, deep down, don't you?"

Tarkin bit down a retort that might have made Vader angrier. Perhaps the Dark Side did harm Vader - he'd been thinking about that last night. But the _Empire_ \- that was ridiculous. The Empire had brought Vader to a position of power greater than any he'd ever had before. He'd gone from being a slave to ruling the whole galaxy. How in blast was that _harm?_ The first Emperor had been cruel to Vader, but he was _gone_ now. The Empire itself-

Natasi had warned him that, if Vader was questioning everything Palpatine ever did, sooner or later he would question this, too. The people in the current Empire weren't harming Vader. But Vader wasn't always rational. If he _believed_ that they were harming him-

Then they were all as good as dead.

But Tarkin had told Natasi that this was an absurd fear. That it wouldn't happen.

He turned to Vader, trying to suppress a rising panic. "Is that what _you_ think?"

"Everything harms me," said Vader, impatient, as if the question was a waste of time. "The issue is the Rebels."

Tarkin could hear his voice rising, quicker and sharper than he'd meant it to. "Well, I regret to remind you that you lack the authority to make that decision. In case you've forgotten, you've been stripped of the ability to set policy or give military orders until such time as Emfour certifies you competent to return. I won't have it. Ask me again when you're fit for command."

Luke opened his mouth to say something, but Vader made a quieting gesture as he stepped forward. It was eerie how quickly the two of them had fallen into a rapport; yesterday, such a gesture would not have worked. He expected Vader to snap back at him, to try to threaten him, but instead his deep voice softened.

"My love," said Vader. "You know I did not ask to rule at your side. You gave that to me of your own free will, and you took it away again. You are permitted that. But you did make promises. Such small things that I asked of you. Do you remember?"

Tarkin set his jaw. "Of course I remember, but which of those things could possibly-"

"You promised me," Vader continued, implacable, "that if I ever formed an opinion in some political matter, you would value it as highly as your own."

Tarkin swallowed hard. He remembered that promise. It had seemed so simple then.

"Vader, I promised to value _your_ opinion. Not to automatically leap into the first suicidal idea that your terrorist son put in your head. That was the deal, not-"

"Then I am altering the deal."

Vader took another step forward, genuinely looming over Tarkin now. Tarkin glared up at him, enraged. To back down now would be deadly for more than one reason. The Rebels would gain a foothold at the Empire's heart, and Vader would be taught that he could push Tarkin around forever, whenever he wanted to. The whole reason their relationship had survived this long was because that did not happen. When their safety was at stake, Tarkin _could_ make him back down.

"What you are suggesting," said Tarkin through his teeth, "is treason. It will destroy the Empire. I mean that very literally, Vader. If you don't think I mean it, then look in my mind."

"Is the Empire so fragile," said Vader, "that a mere truce could destroy it?"

"Not immediately, of course, but it will give ground to our enemies. And once an enemy is given ground, it never stops. Do you think the Rebels will be satisfied with two planets? These are a group who already don't abide by the law. Their express aim is to violently destroy us. Do you think Luke will be satisfied with two planets, for that matter?" He gestured angrily to Luke, who no longer looked serene and otherworldly. Luke had backed up, as small and alarmed as any teenager whose parents were arguing in front of them. "What will he convince you to do next? Do you know? Have you imagined it? When you decide it's time for him and his ilk to take over the government, Vader, what do you think will happen to people like us? You might not fear firing squads; you can simply deflect the bolts. But for the rest of us- if you even care about the rest of us-"

At that moment, the throne room's door opened.

Tarkin turned to it, dismayed. It was his chief of staff, Alba Nemeus. He looked rattled. He was too intelligent to barge into a private meeting without a good reason - but this was _not_ a good time.

"My lord," said Nemeus, quickly going down on one knee. His breath was a little ragged, as if he'd been running.

"I gave the order that we were to be undisturbed," said Tarkin. "Did I not?"

"I'm sorry, my lord. There's an emergency, and it's relevant to your earlier orders. Rebel operatives have been discovered in the Palace." Nemeus's eyes slid to Luke, who had opened his mouth in horror. "Aside from the Prince, I mean. Actual Rebels."

Tarkin frowned. The timing couldn't be a coincidence; this must be some little team sent to recover Luke. He was mildly impressed with their boldness, if they'd come right inside the palace. How droll that Luke had already decided against being rescued.

"Well, apprehend them," he said impatiently. "You shouldn't need my help."

Nemeus nodded. "My apologies, my lord; I misspoke. They've been apprehended already, though it's possible there may be more. The trouble is that, ah - there is some disagreement over what to do with them. The situation is unusual-"

It wasn't like Nemeus to ramble like this. A mere disagreement over handling prisoners wasn't an emergency, but clearly there was something about it that felt like one to him, and he was reluctant to say why.

"This is not a good day to waste my time, Nemeus. You have three choices. Put them in the detention block like any other Rebels. Explain to me succinctly why that can't be done. Or send me someone who can."

"As you wish, my lord." Nemeus nodded - relieved, Tarkin thought. He was all too glad to foist this off on someone else.

He ducked out of the room, and almost immediately the door opened again.

Natasi walked in.

_Grand Admiral Daala_ walked in - that was what Tarkin supposed he ought to call her, even in his head. Her finery from last night was gone. She blazed, immaculate in the white of her military uniform, although her hair hung loose. She looked as though she hadn't slept much, but that wasn't going to stop her. She dropped to one knee and genuflected, but her green eyes remained fixed on Tarkin's.

Behind her marched four Royal Guards in their brilliant reds, dragging along two prisoners who were finely dressed, although somewhat worse for wear. They both wore cuffs, and both displayed slight scratches and bruises that said they'd resisted arrest. The Royal Guards shoved them forward, and they both dropped to their knees.

Tarkin had to take a step forward to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. It didn't make any sense.

The two faces that looked up at him, afraid and defiant and glaring, were Garoche and Rivoche's.

He turned to Natasi, his voice icy. "Explain."

Natasi stood, even though he hadn't technically bid her to rise. "My lord, you said we ought to keep an eye on them, so I did. I had their room monitored. Not long after you and Emperor Vader retired for the night, scans detected an outgoing communication. Not from the comms panel that was provided in their room, but a message only a few seconds long, sufficiently weak and encrypted that we'd never have noticed it without monitoring that room specifically. A look at the security footage showed that they sent the message immediately after a visit to Prince Luke in his guest room, in which Luke and Rivoche had furtive conversation that the cameras couldn't read, and Rivoche emerged distraught."

"This is highly circumstantial," said Tarkin. He was known for putting tactical clues together quickly, based on details others might ignore. Natasi had some of that capacity, too. But this seemed excessive. There were all sorts of things that could have led to that chain of events, without anyone but Luke being a Rebel.

"I had our cybersecurity teams analyze what we could capture of the message. It could only have propagated locally; a signal to an accomplice in the area, perhaps. We've had no luck decrypting it - which means it isn't a civilian encryption system, nor one of the Empire's own. During arrest, we recovered the communication device that was used to send the message. It's not of an authorized Imperial make. It _is_ of a make that we've found on Rebel operatives before."

Tarkin scowled at the three of them. "So they're guilty of unauthorized cryptography. It is a _large_ leap from there to actual treason. Did you _ask_ them-" He turned to Rivoche and Garoche; they were his children, after all. _He_ could ask them, without Natasi's paranoias getting in the way. "You don't dispute that you sent the message, I assume? To whom was it addressed?"

"I have a friend from the HoloNet who's vacationing near here," Rivoche said primly. "We'd been talking about meeting up during the tour, so I messaged her briefly to let her know that was going ahead. I used an encrypted device because we both share an interest in encryption and in secret codes; it's one of my vices. I admit I have many, and I was slightly drunk at the time. But I would like if my own family didn't _immediately_ leap to wrong conclusions about me on a _constant_ basis."

Tarkin narrowed his eyes at her. This story wasn't impossible, but there was something about the way she said it. Too practiced. Many spies, Rebel and otherwise, who were new at the job made such mistakes. He'd seen it before.

But it was a coincidence, surely. It made no sense for Rivoche, of all people, to be a Rebel. She must be hiding something _else._

"A chatterer like you," Natasi said scornfully, "with your tongue loosed by alcohol, called your friend, for less than ten seconds. In a code so secret that Imperial analysts working all night haven't cracked it yet. For which you still haven't provided a key."

"Codes don't work like that," said Rivoche impatiently. "You can't just recite the key out of your head. The two devices are-"

"Name the friend," Tarkin interrupted.

Rivoche hesitated, then said a feminine name he didn't recognize.

"We'll follow up with her, of course." He looked between both of his children. Garoche had said nothing yet; he was staring straight ahead, stoic and pained. "Do either of you have anything else to say for yourselves? Garoche, were you even aware of the transmission?"

Garoche set his jaw. "Yes, father. It was a drunken missive to her friend, as she said. I told her it was a bad idea, but you know how she gets."

Was it Tarkin's imagination, or was there something wrong with how Garoche was speaking, too? It was subtler than the problem with Rivoche, but Tarkin had once known his son so well. He seemed a little too stoic, a little too resigned. More than would have been warranted, if he was simply an accessory after the fact to ten seconds of unauthorized cryptography.

But that was only Tarkin's nerves getting to him. He didn't have time for this. Luke was the one who was committing actual treason, right now.

He sighed shortly. "I'm very disappointed in you both. You know that, thanks to your new stepbrother, the situation is sensitive. It isn't the time to be playing with such things. I'll have you both confined to your guest rooms until we've decrypted your message and confirmed your cover story. You are, of course, welcome to volunteer to make it go faster-"

"There's a faster way than that, my lord," said Natasi. "Emperor Vader is right here. Why not have them explain what's happened to _him?_ "

Tarkin glanced at Vader, who had been standing at the side, breathing as usual, declining to interfere. Luke, at his side, looked deeply frightened. He looked back at Natasi.

He understood, belatedly, why she was angry. Before anyone knew about Luke, back when Natasi had only just come back from the Maw, Tarkin had doubted her loyalties for flimsier reasons than these. When she forgot to share a vital piece of information, he'd brought her to Vader and had Vader read her mind, just to be sure she wasn't working for their enemies. The process was not pleasant for any of them. But Tarkin had been fully estranged from his children for years, and he was still softer with them, more willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, than he'd been with her.

He looked back at Vader, working his jaw, suddenly uncertain. Under normal circumstances, it _would_ be the quickest way. But now was _not_ the time to ask for Vader's help with Rebels.

Vader took a step forward - in response to Natasi, not Tarkin. "If you wish-"

"No," Luke exclaimed, eyes suddenly wide with terror, scrambling in front of him. "Don't hurt them, father."

The whole room suddenly turned its attention to Luke, and Luke faltered, as if he hadn't expected that.

Tarkin was profoundly irritated. How could Luke be so small and weak and soft? How could he crack so easily? How could _this_ be the Rebel who had turned Vader against the Empire?

"They're my step-siblings," Luke pleaded, a little less sure of himself than before. "Don't hurt them."

Vader looked at him for another breath.

"There is no need," he said at last. "Your own mind has given me the answer."

" _What?_ " said Luke, turning a bizarre shade of purple as he realized his mistake. Vader didn't always need a mind probe to read someone's thoughts, not when they were panicked and thinking them loudly enough. Not when he was already as close to them as he apparently was with his son.

Vader turned to Tarkin. "They are Rebels. They revealed themselves to Luke last night. They offered to help him escape, but he refused."

Luke shot Garoche and Rivoche a chagrined look, a kind of strangled, helpless apology.

Tarkin looked at his children, dismayed beyond words. This couldn't be right; there must be some mistake. His voice sounded strange to him, somehow. "Is that true?"

Of course it was true. Vader and Luke wouldn't have both reacted this way if it wasn't.

Garoche made a small, stubborn movement with his jaw, like he still wanted to find a way to deny it somehow. It was Rivoche, of course, who broke first. "Yes, Daddy, of course it's true. Did you think that we came to this palace just because we _liked_ you?"

Tarkin could feel a cold fury rising up in him, so cold it nearly froze him to the spot. He thought his skin would crack like ice. "How long has this been going on?"

"Years, actually." She wasn't repentant at all; she matched him, cold fury for cold fury. In that, at least, Rivoche was one of the family. "Since not long after the divorce. We both defected separately and found each other again on the other side. It improved both our opinions of each other considerably. It seems that when you run a family like a tyrant, all you produce is young people predisposed to oppose tyranny."

He felt a small muscle pop in his jaw. "What was the transmission for?"

Garoche was the one who answered this time. "Another Rebel who was waiting near the palace with a vehicle to help Luke escape. We told them they'd no longer be needed. They'll be long gone from this system by now."

So Tarkin couldn't even catch all the people responsible for this. Infuriating. It was a beginner's mistake at spycraft, sending a message that might be traced like that, gambling that the people one was fooling would be looking elsewhere. They should have come up with some other kind of signal, something more plausibly deniable. But the Rebels were often slapdash in their methods. If the two of them had been held in reserve all this time, avoiding suspicion, passing on small bits of information as the opportunity arose, awaiting the time when their pedigree would make them useful, then they wouldn't have much experience at this level of deception when they were called upon. And they'd have accepted the mission anyway, because there was nothing a proper scion of the Tarkin family loved more than to prove oneself in the face of danger...

"This is treason, of course," he heard himself saying. How did his voice sound so calm? "The penalty will be the same as for any other Rebel-"

"Tarkin," said Vader, in a strange, warning tone, taking another step towards him.

Tarkin's head snapped up to face him. He knew that tone. Usually Tarkin was the one who used it with Vader - to snap Vader into stopping and thinking about it, when Vader was being a little too eager to strangle and destroy. He was not used to hearing it from the other side.

What was there to stop and think about here? They were Rebels; even Vader said so. They'd confessed.

"We were about," Vader continued, "to draw up a truce with the Rebels. Were we not?"

"I didn't agree to that."

"We were _what?_ " said Natasi at the same moment, briefly losing her composure. Even Garoche and Rivoche looked confused.

"Under the terms of the truce," said Vader, and Tarkin twitched, because they hadn't even gotten around to discussing the terms yet, either, "both sides are permitted to defend themselves from active attack. But so long as the Rebels cease attacking us, they can live on their pitiful pair of planets undisturbed, as an autonomous sector. Was there any attack here? Did Garoche or Rivoche harm anyone in this palace?"

Tarkin rounded on him. "I did not agree to your truce. And this incident only illustrates why we can't allow it. The Rebels would never have dared to infiltrate the palace if their recent victories hadn't emboldened them. We can't afford to hand them another." He felt his eye twitching; that was unusual. Tarkin usually had better control of his outward affect than that. "If anything," he heard himself say, "we ought to make an example of them. A public-"

Vader took another step up, right in his face. Towered over him.

"Think very carefully, Tarkin," said Vader, in the voice he used when he was seriously considering strangling someone. Tarkin was faintly aware that he was not, in fact, thinking straight; but that didn't seem relevant compared to the other problems. "They are my children, too."

Tarkin thought he might be shaking. When had Vader become so indecipherable? "You can't be serious. You've known them for a day."

"I am all the Sith," said Vader, as though _that_ were a statement that made any sense. "It seems that all the Rebels are my children. I have no further wish to harm my children. Do you?"

Tarkin stared up into the red-black pits of Vader's eyes.

By any measure, Rebel or Imperial, Tarkin had committed countless crimes in his life. He had destroyed worlds. He had fired on his own personnel. He had overseen purges so vicious that even other Imperials complained. He had redirected pirate spacecraft slowly into a sun. Wars were won or lost through the capacity to do such things. Tarkin had sometimes wondered to himself if there was anything too cruel for him, any act he would flinch away from if his victory required it. He had rather hoped there wasn't.

In the heat of the moment, Tarkin might have gone ahead and ordered his own children's deaths. He might have gone through with it, even with some time to think it over. Now that he'd been made to stop and take a breath, he wasn't sure which option frightened him more. That he would have done even this, or that he was too weak, too soft for it after all.

But he knew he couldn't do it now.

Not with Vader in this state of apparent madness, standing over him, warning him not to. Not before Vader's eyes, when Vader had just risked the galaxy so as not to harm his own son. Not when Vader, who could kill them all in the blink of an eye, had decided that these were a son and daughter of his, too.

He couldn't. It was simply not possible.

Tarkin didn't know if this was some flickering of conscience. Or if it was fear. Or neither - it could be simple practicality. He couldn't keep being Emperor if Vader killed him, after all. He wasn't sure which of those options he liked least. But it didn't matter. There was no way to talk Vader out of this one, not Vader in this state, not with so little time. He knew it with the finality of a bulkhead sealing. There was no other option.

He let out a sharp breath. "Fine," he said.

"What do you mean, _fine?_ " said Natasi somewhere in the room, but he ignored her.

"I'll draw up your truce," said Tarkin. He did not take his eyes off Vader. He felt a strange vertigo: a weight lifted from him and a pit opening under his feet, both at once. "I'll send these two back along with it, and they can both go live with the side they've chosen. Now, get out." Vader did not move at first, so he spat it out harder. " _Out._ All of you."

Vader hesitated another breath, but he turned, and that broke some kind of spell over the room. Luke and the guards hurried after him, pulling Garoche and Rivoche roughly to their feet to drag them along. Tarkin couldn't look at them.

"All of you except the Grand Admiral," he added, on impulse.

It was the last he'd likely ever see of his children, and he couldn't look at them. Every moment they'd had together yesterday was a lie. He would never see his granddaughter, either. If she was even real.

When the door shut behind everyone, Tarkin sat down heavily. Not in his throne, but on the floor in front of it. The Imperial robes felt wrong on his body, swishy and theatrical and fooling no one. That silver circlet was too heavy on his head. He pulled it off and set it on the floor beside him.

Then he buried his face in his hands.

He didn't know why, but he was immersed for a moment in a memory of his Grand-Uncle Jova. The man, long since dead of old age, who'd guided him on the Carrion Plateau. He could vividly remember Jova's stern hand on his frightened young shoulder - when had Tarkin ever been that young? - as they watched a pack of veermoks from a safe distance, the way the animals gave ground to each other, the ways they trapped and panicked their prey into submission.

_You see that, Wilhuff?_ he remembered Jova saying gruffly in his ear. _Look at the leader. For every time it comes down to a physical fight, there are ten when it doesn't. The leader makes a move, and the rest of them lie down and show their bellies. They already know they're nothing._ He had smiled cruelly; it was no different from dozens of other talks they'd had, while they scrabbled to survive on Tarkin's summers in that jungle, eating only what they could kill, keeping themselves sheltered and protected with no technology more advanced than a sharp knife. _Give a little ground like that, show your belly just once, and the whole jungle will know that you're nothing. You're meat._

Tarkin had been able to deal with a creature like Vader successfully, for all these years, because he'd known how to apply those lessons. No matter what their tastes in kink might be, or what he'd let Vader do to him with the Force, he'd always ensured very carefully that Vader _respected_ him. Vader listened to Tarkin, particularly in matters of safety, because Vader knew he would never back down.

But now he had backed down.

He would never be able to undo it. Show a beast that it could do with you as it willed, and it would remember the lesson.

Tarkin had broken.

He was no longer Emperor.

He was nothing.

"Sir," said Natasi. Her voice snapped him out of his reverie, but he was not sure if it was the first time she'd said it. She was still standing, crisp and at attention; he looked up at her.

"My dear," he said, hauling himself to his feet. His joints twinged; Tarkin was getting old. "I owe you an apology."

"Yes, sir."

Her face was stony, unreadable. Natasi kept herself expressionless as a matter of course, on the job and with strangers, but when she and Tarkin were alone, she normally relaxed somewhat. Refusing to do so now was a rebuke, as strong as if he'd tried to touch her and she'd shrugged him away.

He sighed, It was going to have to be a large apology, then. "The day you met Vader, you told me he seemed unfit for command, and I didn't listen. Not until he'd almost died. You warned me I was running myself ragged over a ghost that might not be real, and I didn't listen until it was proven unreal after all. You told me that Vader was on the verge of destroying the Empire, and Luke might push him over that brink, and I thought your fear was overblown. You told me that Garoche and Rivoche were up to something, and I thought you were being... jealous, I suppose, because they had a form of attention from me that you didn't. I didn't listen to that, either."

If anything, her face had only grown stonier. "No, sir. Not until Emperor Vader said it."

"You've always been perceptive; it's why I wanted you here. I knew that, if my own judgment was clouded, you'd still see clearly. And you did. It's not your fault that wasn't enough to stop what happened."

Natasi raised her chin; her voice was clipped. "Sir, we have larger problems here than your opinion of me. What exactly is this _truce?_ And why - how-?"

Tarkin scrubbed a hand across his face. "I don't quite know. Something happened to dramatically change Vader's opinions overnight, and it involved Luke. He came to the conclusion that we can no longer fight the Rebels except in direct self-defense, because they are Luke's friends, and to harm them would be harming his son. Vader has... strong opinions on the topic of harming his loved ones. I tried everything, before you came in, and I couldn't talk him down."

She eyed him, unreadably. "And you're actually going to _do_ it?"

Years ago, when Natasi was just a captain, Tarkin had secretly taken her to the Carrion Plateau himself. The rest of the family would have been furious if they knew; the lessons of that place were only for the family itself, and only for men. But Natasi always insisted on doing anything a man could. And he had been serious about her, deadly serious. Natasi understood the jungle's laws. She knew what it meant to back down and show your belly to a monster.

Natasi loved Tarkin because he embodied power; he had taught her what it was and how to wield it. And ever since she returned from the Maw, she'd seen that power begin to break. Failing to listen to one's lover was a commonplace offence. He'd failed her much more deeply than that.

"He can read minds, my dear," Tarkin said. He couldn't quite meet her eyes. "He could kill us all in an instant. And he's dead-set on this. Yes. I'm going to do it."

Natasi set her jaw. Whatever she thought of that, she didn't need to put it into words.

Tarkin wanted to reach for her, wanted to press her close, but in a mood like this, she would not have allowed it. "Beyond the issue of having a truce or not, I'd like to think about our long-term strategy."

Natasi forced an aggrieved breath out through her nose. "What long-term strategy? Weren't you listening? He'll keep escalating, and you won't be able to stop him. Not even with an army, I don't think. There won't be an Empire anymore."

"Yes; so we need to consider what we'll do in light of that." He took a breath. He already knew, deep down, what he wanted to do; it had come to him with surprising ease. He suspected it had been brewing in the back of his mind, not quite ready to be acknowledged, all along. "Eventually, if our reign lasted, Vader and I would have had to choose an heir. It would have been mostly my decision, if only because Vader doesn't have many people he likes. There are a number of adequate candidates. But I've taught you everything I know about power and war. In a decade or so, once you'd made a bit more of a name for yourself and gained some political experience, I had hoped it might be you."

Her composure did begin to crumple at that, gently and all at once. Her lower lip trembled. Tarkin knew it was still mostly anger. All of this had just been taken from her, and she hadn't even known that she had it.

He pressed on. "In lieu of that, I have other orders for you. I'll draw up the terms of the truce. You'll deliver it to the Rebellion yourself. That will give you a good excuse to fly away from here. Then you're going to rendezvous with the fleet of Destroyers that were formerly at the Maw. The Sun Crusher project and the weapon prototypes you recovered from Exegol are still under you in the chain of command. You were already tasked with finding a new home for them. I want you to oversee that task personally. Finish the weapons projects and bide your time. We can't stand against Vader directly, but sooner or later his health will catch up to him. With good direction, your group will be able to swoop back in, at that point, and take control of what's left."

Natasi wavered, several different reactions vying for dominance on her face. She had not liked it the first time Tarkin sent her the Maw - back when he was a Grand Moff, trying to salvage her career after the scandal. She had felt abandoned. Now he was sending her away again. But it would let her keep her power, and it would keep her far away from Vader. He didn't know what else to do.

"Sir," she said at last. "You should know. I started planning to do that three days ago."

He let out his breath. It didn't even feel like a betrayal, now that he understood what she'd feared. "Of course you did. You've always seen which way the wind is blowing, haven't you?" He shook his head. "I'll send help to you as I can, and perhaps officials to harbor who have fallen out of Vader's favor, but I think it's better if you work without my oversight as much as possible. I suspect I'm compromised."

"Sir-" Abruptly she stepped in closer. She clutched at his arm with a vehemence far beyond what she was willing to show on her face. Her gloved fingers dug tightly into the black of his Imperial mantle. "Come with me. If I'm supposed to harbor officials, I can harbor you too. Maybe Vader would even agree to give it to us - a place of our own, like what he wants the Rebels to have. Just one little world where people can stay when they've got too much blood on their hands to live in the new regime."

Tarkin reached up and clasped her hand. "You know why I can't do that, my dear."

"This will kill you if you stay. Vader will kill you, or the Rebels will."

Tarkin ran his fingers along hers and began to gently disentangle them, one by one. "Perhaps. But I'm still responsible for this galaxy. I can slow the damage and ensure there's something vaguely functional left over for you when it's your turn. If I were to leave abruptly, there would be nothing standing in Vader's way at all. But I think he'll still think twice before harming me directly, and that's leverage." His mouth quirked into a tiny smile; he couldn't stop it. He wasn't sure why this morbidly amused him. "Besides, if I vanished, I do believe he'd tear through the galaxy looking for me."

Vader had visions of people's deaths sometimes. At the beginning of their relationship he had prophesied that Tarkin would die pursuing an ambitious goal, something that he wanted very much, for which he underestimated the risks. He would be warned; he would be given a chance to escape; he would refuse. The Death Star had very nearly fulfilled that prophecy. It was only a whim - spurred partly by Vader's anxieties, and by the coup they were already planning - that had led him to choose the prudent course and get on his shuttle, when he would rather have risked it all for glory and stayed.

Sometimes in the small hours of the morning, after Yavin, Tarkin had wondered if he'd truly averted his fate. If he was even meant to be alive. He had never liked the idea of retreat, creeping out of a vessel like a rat at the first sign of trouble. A proper leader, Tarkin thought, could stand his ground and stare death in the face.

Tarkin didn't particularly fear death. He didn't want to flee again. He would do what was necessary until he couldn't anymore.

He would go down with this ship.

"Sir," said Natasi, "with all due respect, I don't think you're competent to make this decision in your current state. Maybe if we waited a day and thought about it."

Tarkin shook his head. Gently, he disengaged the last of her fingers from his sleeve. This felt right to him; it felt inevitable.

"You are the strongest person I know, my dear," he said. "You're strong enough to do this alone."

Natasi's face contorted - she was close to crying; she  _never_ cried on the job. Then she turned smartly on her heel and faced away from him. Showing him her back, and the fall of her beautiful red hair, down to her shoulder blades. It had not escaped him that she had grown out that hair as soon as she was removed from him. It would get even longer now, he supposed.

He had more that he wanted to say, and no idea how to say it. He wanted her to tell him that it was all right, but it wasn't. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but he did not think she would appreciate that at a time like this. He did not think she would say it back to him.

"Do try to understand," he said. "I didn't think it would turn out this way. I didn't want it to."

Whatever her face might have been doing, her voice was clipped and even. "I do understand, sir. We're all just beasts. You take your territory; you defend it as long as you can. You protect your offspring. You keep your mate. I wish you'd kept me."

Tarkin raised his hand. He wanted to touch her hair, grasp her shoulder, pull her back around to face him. Something. Anything. His hand hovered in the air.

In the silence, Natasi stepped away. Her boots clicked rhythmically on the throne room's polished floor as she walked all the way out, and the door shut behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta say, it took me a really long time to figure out how Vader was going to make the truce happen without Tarkin being literally choked to death! And I owe a lot to Spooky-Spaghetties, who pointed out that if Vader wants to do things for Luke that are contrary to the "ruling a galaxy with an iron fist" thing, and Tarkin is meanwhile having contact with his own children and wishing he could reconcile with them, that might soften him a bit towards Vader's wishes even if he still doesn't approve. But then of course I did the worst possible version of that and maybe actually did kinda the opposite, SORRY LOL, I'M JUST ~*~LIKE THIS~*~
> 
> Happy times will return to this fic eventually, but like, maybe not for a while? I don't know.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Luke starts to get used to giving orders, Vader tries very hard to do relationship damage control, an unpleasant fact about the Clone Wars belatedly comes to light, and two-thirds of the Tarkin family are reduced to tears.

Luke was shaking. None of that had gone the way he wanted it to. He had known it would be tricky for Vader to convince Tarkin to draw up a truce, but he hadn't expected all of that. He _definitely_ hadn't expected the part with his step-siblings.

The throne room's door swished shut behind them, leaving him and Vader, Garoche and Rivoche and the Royal Guards, in the big, fancy, black hallway that led between the Grand Anteroom and the throne room. Alba Nemeus had apparently been waiting by the door for them, and so had a few more guards and aides, but not a big crowd. Vader stopped in his tracks as soon as they were out of the throne room, and Luke could feel an anguished roil in his mind, even worse than everyone else's confusion.

He was still learning how vulnerable Vader really was. How easy it was for him to fall into the kind of spiral where he might hurt himself. Luke couldn't quite sort out his senses clearly enough to know what had set his father off - whether it was the way Tarkin had argued and called him stupid, or the surprise about Garoche and Rivoche, or the way Tarkin had almost killed them, or the way he'd had to bully Tarkin into submission because Tarkin wouldn't listen to anything else. Maybe all four of them. Luke didn't even know what to do about any of those things.

The guards kept pulling Garoche and Rivoche along - back to their rooms, he guessed, probably, until the ship was ready that would take them back to the Rebel base. Luke owed the two of them an apology - but he also wasn't sure if he trusted his father to be alone.

"Hold on," said Luke to the guards. He was mildly surprised when they stopped, but it made sense; he outranked them. He looked at Vader. "Father - are you okay?"

"No," said Vader.

"What do you need?"

"I need to speak to Emperor Tarkin again."

Luke hesitated, torn. He had a lot of feelings about what had just happened, good and bad, and he hadn't sorted them all out in his head yet. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of Vader going back in to argue with Tarkin yet, with or without him. But that wasn't up to Luke anyway, was it?

While he dithered over what to say, Garoche cleared his throat. The guards were holding him too tightly to let him step forward, or kneel, but he managed a respectful incline of his head. Garoche's face didn't give away much, but he felt tense and shaken. "My lord, thank you. You were under no obligation to protect us that way."

This only seemed to upset Vader more. "You know nothing," he growled. "None of you know anything."

Rivoche gave her brother a dubious glance.

"Father-" Luke started, but he still had no idea what he could possibly say.

Vader looked at him. "You wish to follow your siblings. Follow them. Then tell Architect Leffe that I sent for her, and you may begin planning your memorial. I will make contact with you soon. But I must deal with this first, my son. Without you."

*

Vader was not okay. He had sworn he would not harm his son. He had found out he was hurting him, after all, and he had done what was necessary to correct that. Vader did not see another good solution to this, besides a truce - didn't a truce mean that everyone stopped fighting? But Tarkin seemed to think it meant the opposite. Through whatever bizarre logic was in Tarkin's head, a truce with an enemy like the Rebels felt like a direct threat to his life. And, feeling that fear, Vader had pressed through and enforced his will anyway.

He could not have done otherwise. Not when their children's lives hung in the balance. Tarkin's fear wasn't real anyway, was it? But there was no escaping the fact that Vader had hurt the man he loved. He'd felt _that_ in Tarkin's mind as he ordered everyone out, too. The sense of abject, broken defeat.

Vader had done a lot of things to Tarkin over the years. He was not a particularly good or safe lover. But he had never done _this._

What if there wasn't ever another option? What if it wasn't possible to have both his son and his lover, because one of them would get hurt no matter what he did? That would be genuinely intolerable. Vader did not know what he would do.

He would not undo the truce. But, some other way, he had to make this right.

When Luke and the other children had gone off into the dark maze of palace hallways, Nemeus gave Vader a coolly uncertain look. "What are your orders, Your Highness?"

Vader looked at the door. Tarkin was still in there with Daala; he would not interrupt them. They were probably talking over how to deal with it if Vader stopped following orders and put them in danger. That would be the logical thing for them to talk about. He should not barge into the throne room when Daala left, either, not if Tarkin needed not to be disturbed. He needed not to threaten Tarkin any more than he already had.

"When Emperor Tarkin's current meeting is over," said Vader, "inform him that I will follow his orders. If he wishes to summon me to speak to me, I will speak to him. If he orders me back to my quarters, I will go. It is up to him."

Nemeus raised his eyebrows slightly, but he nodded. "As you wish, my lord."

After a few minutes, the black doors opened and Grand Admiral Daala strode out, turmoil in her mind, sparing neither of them a second glance. Nemeus waited a moment longer, watching her turn the corner and disappear into the palace's maze of halls, before he slipped in, himself.

It did not surprise Vader when no orders emerged.

*

The Royal Guards followed Luke's orders, so he ordered them to let Garoche and Rivoche walk like normal people instead of dragging them around. Eventually they ended up in one of the guest rooms - one that looked mostly identical to Luke's, but larger, with two of those blue-green-black beds under the starry ceiling - and the door closed behind them. Garoche sank down onto the couch, breathing out slowly, keeping himself deliberately controlled. Rivoche crossed her arms and faced the wall. Luke hovered near the door; he didn't want to overstay his welcome. But neither of them seemed bothered by his presence yet.

"I'm not calling him 'father,'" Rivoche said to the wall. Luke couldn't quite make sense of all of the unsettled emotions in her mind, but their own actual father had just tried to have them killed, and Darth Vader, of all people, had stopped him. They both had good reasons to be unsettled. "I've had too many dreadful fathers already. _Not_ another."

"I don't think we're staying long enough to have to say it," said Garoche. "Unless there's another change of plans, I believe we're headed back to the Rebel base very shortly."

"I wanted to say sorry," Luke interrupted. "For... giving you away like that. I didn't mean to-"

Garoche shook his head. "Of course you didn't. You have no training in how to handle interrogation. Much less interrogation from someone who can read your thoughts."

"But they weren't even interrogating me-"

A small smile of amusement crossed Garoche's face. "Of course they were. I don't know that they consciously had that intent, given how quickly it all happened, but plenty of people crack when a third party is threatened in front of them. It doesn't even have to be a loved one. Innocents for whom you feel responsible, perhaps. It's a known technique."

"They were going to find out anyway at that point," Rivoche added, though she still did not turn to face him. "The only question was how quickly. To be honest, as soon as you mentioned the mental bond, I knew this was likely to happen."

Luke frowned, chagrined. He'd mentioned that yesterday afternoon, while they watched the Changing of the Royal Guard, before he knew either of them was a Rebel yet. "But you decided to go through with it anyway. For me."

"Of course we did. Where's the fun in signing up for an important mission and then backing out?"

Luke gave her a careful look. Last night, Rivoche had flung herself down dramatically and excorciated herself for risking so much for him. Had she changed her mind so quickly? Maybe Rivoche was just one of those people, with moods that flared up and died down again as quickly as a dust storm. Or maybe she just want to talk about this.

"When you said Emperor Vader needed you," Rivoche continued after a pause, "I didn't think anything good would come of it. But your presence clearly changed his mind about some things. I don't know how long this supposed truce is going to last, or even if they're going to set out the terms in good faith. But if you convinced Darth Vader, of all people, that he wants one - after knowing him for under a week - then perhaps it's not as hopeless as I thought."

"What exactly happened there?" said Garoche. He had a knuckle pressed lightly against his face, and he was thinking hard. "You were standing there with Vader when we came in. He mentioned the truce, and he said he didn't want to harm the Rebels anymore, because we were his children. But I'm not sure how he came to that conclusion."

"I don't really know," said Luke. He sank down onto the other half of the couch. It was weird, trying to find the words to explain this. This whole morning had been weird. But Garoche and Rivoche deserved to know - and the Rebels back at the base deserved it, too. "It just really got me thinking, when I talked to you two last night. I realized if I was going to stay here, I had to find a way to make it matter. So I came up with the truce. I told him I'd stay and be a prince of my own free will if he made one. I wanted to have a father, but I couldn't be happy here if I knew my friends were still dying out there."

Garoche raised an eyebrow. "And he accepted? Just like that?"

"No, that's the weird part. He didn't accept, he just got really upset. He said I shouldn't stay after all, because he'd end up hurting me." Luke looked off into the distance. He didn't want to tell them everything; he didn't want to repeat the whole _slave_ thing. "He told me some things. Private stuff. I think..." He sighed. "It took me a while to figure it out, but Vader's not someone who wanted to be evil. He felt like he had to. He got talked into making some really bad choices, back when I was born, and then he felt like he couldn't take it back. I think, having me here, now that the old Emperor's not controlling him anymore- it's making him realize he could do things another way."

Rivoche turned to look at him, arms crossed. A peculiar sour, sad expression had twisted her thin lips. "What's this other way, then? Is he going to be accountable? Is he going to stand trial for his war crimes? Is he even going to stop sharing his bed, _and_ the crown, with a man who likes to annihilate entire planets-"

Luke didn't have an answer to that at all. This morning had happened so fast; he hadn't even begun to imagine what might happen next. Garoche must have seen it on his face, because he interrupted. "Riv-"

"The Empire never shows mercy nor forgiveness, even to its own children. You saw that just now! It's their whole _thing._ " She raised a hand in a parroting gesture, mimicking the lower tones of her father's voice. "We can't afford to show a moment of weakness! Human decency is weakness! Everything else but mass murder is weakness! Jungle animals will eat you if you can't be evil! Blah, blah, blah!" She lowered her hand with a sharp motion, and Luke realized she was close to crying, her lower lip trembling as she spoke. "I've heard it all my life. I never even got mercy for having spoken out of turn. But _we're_ supposed to forgive _them?_ "

Garoche got up from the couch and took hold of her, gently but firmly, by the arms. "We'll talk about this on the trip home, Riv. I don't think Luke is the one to blame."

Luke awkwardly stood after him. He was starting to feel like he should go, and let them process the rest of their feelings on their own. But something felt very final about this. They were going back to the Rebels, and Luke was never going back there again.

"I should get going," he said. "I gotta, um, do prince things. But... thank you. Both of you. You risked so much for me."

That seemed to put Rivoche back on familiar ground. She raised her head loftily, composing herself. "Think nothing of it. At least I got to be a princess for a day."

Luke took a breath, preparing to leave. Staying here, being a prince, was what he needed to do. But he ached to see Pantora again. To hug his friends. To listen to their laughing, horrified, incredulous reactions as he told them everything that had just happened. To know if they even thought this was a good idea. It was probably going to make a lot of them mad, the way it made Rivoche mad. It would make Leia mad, he thought, and he didn't know what to do about that. "Tell Leia-"

He bit his lip. He wasn't even sure what he wanted to tell her.

Rivoche's face softened into a small, knowing smile. "We'll tell her."

*

Tarkin prided himself on the ability to stay focused no matter what occurred. That was simply a matter of discipline. It annoyed him that he felt his discipline faltering now. He could hardly remember what his meetings today were supposed to have been. When Nemeus slipped back into the room, he cast a pointed glance at the Imperial circlet, where it lay on the floor; Tarkin had already forgotten he'd taken it off.

"Emperor Vader says he will take your orders, my lord," said Nemeus. "Whether you wish to order him back in here, or back to his quarters-"

"Neither of those," Tarkin said, dismayed and distracted, waving a hand. "No orders."

He held himself together long enough to order a meeting with the new Ruling Council and the Joint Chiefs so as to draw up Vader's truce. This was not a mere military cease-fire; Vader's terms required the creation of a new autonomous sector, which would require vast bureaucratic reorganization on every level. The legal language needed to be airtight.

Everyone was thinking the question, as they stood at attention in a small clump listening to Tarkin's orders, but Nemeus was the one who dared to voice it. "And, er... are we to set out these terms in good faith, my lord?"

It would be much more like Tarkin to play games. To make an offer of truce on conditions so difficult and convoluted that the Rebels couldn't actually meet them. Or trade terms so stringent that they'd starve. But Vader would find out if Tarkin pulled something like that. He would consider it a crime against - as he'd so bafflyingly put it - _his children._

"Yes, we are," said Tarkin. He tried to project a calm, unruffled strength. He wasn't sure it was working. "Emperor Vader will personally see to anyone who does otherwise."

There was more to the meeting, but Tarkin couldn't focus on it. There were supposed to be more meetings after that, but he couldn't remember what they were. It was Nemeus, at last, who pulled him aside. "My lord, I'm not quite sure what's happened here, but it is my professional opinion that you need a rest. Shall I cancel today's schedule for you?"

Tarkin frowned. He didn't want to. The Empire needed him, and he'd pushed through worse than this before - or at least, he thought he had; he was struggling to come up with a specific example. But he clearly wasn't managing to push through this correctly. And if the Empire fell apart in his absence, well, it was going to do that anyway.

"Fine," he said irritably.

When he left the throne room, he was surprised to find Vader still waiting in the hall. It took him a moment to remember Vader's request for orders, and how he'd declined to give any. It hadn't occurred that Vader would just stand there until he had an answer. Vader usually had a shorter attention span than that. In any case, Vader fell into step beside him as Tarkin walked brislky toward the Imperial Suite.

"What do you want, Vader?" Tarkin said through his teeth.

"I do not like what your mind is doing," said Vader. "If you will not order me away, then let me make it right."

"You can't," Tarkin snapped, and kept walking. He was aware, on a tactile level like needles in his skin, that he could not make Vader go away. If Vader did not want to go away, then he wouldn't. All of Tarkin's tactics for managing the danger only worked when Vader wanted them to. "And following me around like a lost dog won't help."

"Then order me away," said Vader. "I will follow your orders."

"No you won't," said Tarkin impatiently, picking up his pace. "We've just _established_ that you won't, Vader. Don't pretend that isn't what's happened here."

"Try it," Vader insisted, his voice low and bitter. "Order me."

Tarkin did not.

There was some part of him, faint and faraway, that liked this. The feel of Vader walking at his side like an equal, the way they'd walked through Imperial corridors together so many times before. That _equals_ thing had always been a lie - he'd always known Vader could kill him and everyone else in the room - but it was a familiar and comforting lie, and he'd liked it. He'd liked having a seeming ease with Vader when no one else did.

As soon as the Imperial Suite's doors shut behind them, Vader sank to his knees.

The Imperial Suite's parlor was a bizarre room, decked out in soft pastels that suited neither of the Emperors' tastes. With everything else going on, they hadn't had time to remodel it yet. Vader's bulk had always looked out of place in that room. It was Palpatine's old parlor, furnished in the way that Palpatine preferred, and it struck Tarkin in a new way how cruel it was, not just this room but the whole palace and the remains of the Jedi temple underneath, making Vader walk around as though nothing was wrong in the very home of the man who'd hurt him most.

"Stop that," Tarkin said irritably. "Don't kneel for me, Vader. We're both Emperors, and I know you don't like it. Don't-"

Vader didn't move and was clearly not having any of that argument, so Tarkin sat down in a heap on the floor, himself.

Vader picked up Tarkin's hand in one of those heavy gloves. Tarkin did not clasp him back, but he did not pull away, either. It didn't seem important what he did with his body.

"Tarkin," said Vader, a little more of the weight of command seeping back into his voice. "Stay with me. You are here in the Imperial Palace, in the Imperial Suite, in your own parlor. You are an Emperor. Breathe. You are with me. I have you."

Tarkin frowned at him. He recognized this kind of patter - it was what he'd learned to say when Vader was struggling with some traumatic memory and dissociating. Vader had never used it in the other direction before. It seemed so patronizing when Tarkin was on the receiving end. Was that how it had felt to Vader, the entire time?

"Is my mind really _that_ bad?" he managed.

"Yes," said Vader. He did not let go.

"Well, excuse me for-" Tarkin swallowed, and he flexed his hand; he still wasn't sure if he wanted to clasp back or let go. "Excuse me for showing any sign of mental distress, Vader, after you just took my entire reign away from me and doomed the Empire. How silly of me to be upset about that."

"That is not what I meant to do," Vader insisted. "The Empire is not doomed. We have peaceably given away a mere pair of systems, and we have done it on our own terms. Do you really think so little of me, that I would hand you over to your enemies? I would never do that, any more than I would hand my children over."

"What I think, Vader, is that you don't always understand the consequences of your actions."

"Then you think I would fail you. You think that if my son asked me for something that put you directly in danger, I would fail to protect you. Do I fail you that way?"

Tarkin took his hand out of Vader's, so as to massage his own temples. It was true, as far as it went; Vader was nothing if not protective. Perhaps it wasn't so far-fetched to think that, even if the Rebels did take over, Vader would engineer some kind of immunity for him. Perhaps even for Natasi and other people he liked. He could throw his weight around as effectively with Rebel command, no doubt, as he did with Imperial officers.

But Tarkin hardly cared about that. It wasn't the point.

"I always thought we saw eye to eye about things," he said. "I thought we always agreed that in war one has to do whatever's necessary. Do you want another war like the one with the Separatists? One that never ends, but just goes pointlessly back and forth, because the leadership isn't strong enough to strike in a way that would matter-"

"My master," Vader interrupted, "engineered both sides of that war."

Tarkin paused. He blinked, wondering if he heard that right. He narrowed his eyes at Vader. "What?"

"I did agree with you. The Jedi were poor strategists, and their qualms as to methods left their side vulnerable. But that was not why the war dragged on. My master managed it carefully, ruling the Republic as a Supreme Chancellor and the Separatists as a Sith Lord, deliberately ensuring neither side had the advantage for long. We need not manage the Rebels that way."

Tarkin blinked a little longer, and then he buried his face in his hands. He almost didn't have it in him to react. It almost wasn't a surprise, after everything else that had happened with Palpatine. Tarkin had believed in the plan for a Galactic Empire; he had eagerly contributed his own ideas to that plan. He had thought Palpatine believed in it the way he did. But after Palpatine's death, whole conspiracies had come to light, on Palpatine's own posthumous orders, for the express purpose of tearing the whole Empire back down. If Palpatine died of any unnatural cause, or possibly of any cause at all, then he wished for the Empire to be destroyed in his wake and replaced with something better. It had never really been about creating a lasting order. It had only been about Palpatine's own dark ambitions.

Maybe Tarkin, all along, was the only one who'd really believed in this.

"How long have we known each other, Vader?" he said through his hands. "And you didn't think to mention that before?"

But Vader didn't answer, and he didn't truly need to. Vader had always had a strange attitude to his master. His old self, perhaps, had genuinely admired Palpatine; but by the time Tarkin got to know him all over again, under his new name, that feeling had soured. To Vader, no matter how baffling or hurtful the things Palpatine did, it was pointless to complain. This thing with the Separatists simply went in the pile with the rest of the betrayals and lies.

"I am tired of war," said Vader. He sounded hesitant - as if he was still only just working this out himself. Tarkin morbidly wondered what color Vader's eyes would be if he could look at them, right this instant. "I have been at war since I was Luke's age, most of it for stupid, pointless reasons. I do not want that for him. You and I are Emperors; we have absolute power. Could we not use that power to make the kind of galaxy where our children can live?"

"That's not what an Empire is _for._ That's not how it _works._ The first thing an Empire has to do is crush its opposition; otherwise it won't have enough power for long enough to do anything else." Tarkin looked up from behind his hands. His eyes were wet; that was strange. One of the cleaning droids might have thoughtlessly introduced some allergen into the room. "I always thought we agreed about this. Even before you took your name; don't you remember the talks we had? I thought you were the only one of the Jedi who _did_ understand - that the important thing in a war is to win it. Why did you even turn to Palpatine's side, if you didn't believe in what he-"

But he broke off, because something sounded wrong about that argument even to his own ears. And because Vader, beside him, had shifted uncomfortably.

"You didn't, did you?" said Tarkin, more thoughtfully. "That isn't why you turned."

Vader's voice was softer than ever. "I forgot I never told you that story."

"There's a lot you never told me, isn't there? You didn't want to talk about it, and I respected that boundary. But I made my own assumptions in the meantime. Perhaps they were wrong."

Vader wasn't even looking at him, he was looking to the side, lost in some reverie. "Luke is the first person I told, and only because he demanded it. Repeatedly. But I will tell you. If you wish to hear."

Tarkin looked Vader carefully up and down. Vader was still on his knees. There was such coiled power inside that dark armor, and such vulnerability, and Tarkin didn't know what to do with either of them. Not now that his habitual methods had failed. But he needed to understand. "What happened?"

Vader looked down at the floor, and his words came out only with difficulty. "Padmé was going to die in childbirth. I foresaw it. The Jedi would not help me. But I was told that the Dark Side would."

Tarkin frowned more deeply. He actually had been told enough, over the years, to fill in the rest of that story without further elaboration. Vader had told Tarkin before about Padmé Amidala and their secret marriage. He'd told him how he blamed himself for Padmé's death, because his master had told him he'd killed her. Because on the day he fell to the Dark Side they'd had a violent altercation. Because - _I had made a very great sacrifice for her sake,_ he remembered Vader saying, _and instead of accepting it, she turned against me._

Everything abruptly made a horrible kind of sense.

Vader had never wanted any of this. He _had_ agreed with Tarkin's politics, as far as it went - that a government with a single strong leader was best; that one shouldn't flinch from necessary actions in war - but it had never mattered to Vader all that much if he had a government he agreed with, and he hadn't wanted to be a Sith just for that. He had known being a Sith would hurt him, even when he started. What really drove Vader, what led him to choose his allegiances and make the sacrifices he made, were not politics but individual people. People like his late wife, the pacifist. Like Palpatine. Like Tarkin.

And now, Luke.

It was a blinkered way of looking at things, in Tarkin's opinion. An Emperor, or even a Rebel Chancellor, had to deal with galactic systems as a whole. But everything about Vader that was otherwise a contradiction made sense, when one looked at it that way. The rage and the weakness. The fierce protectiveness, and the sudden swings of loyalty.

"I've never really known you, have I?" Tarkin asked, looking into Vader's masked face more closely. "I've only known what your master made out of you."

But that way of saying it seemed to agitate Vader. He flinched at the words, and then he was grabbing at Tarkin's hands, urgent and distraught. "Do not say that. It is not true. You have always known me."

"Have I?"

Tarkin's mind might still be addled, but the dark armored shape in front of him scarcely looked familiar. People could read whatever they wanted to into a mask like Vader's. Tarkin had always enjoyed having Vader's power on his own side, but he didn't think Vader was on anyone's side anymore. Deep down, Vader was his own man, following his own heart to the things that it fixed itself on, and that man - now that he had no master, and a reason to live - was beginning to awaken.

Was it wrong that Tarkin still wanted him? He ought to be strategizing, thinking of the Empire first, doing damage control and figuring out how best to assist Natasi's work, but he didn't want to. Just once, for just a little while, he wanted to let that all go.

"You knew Anakin," Vader suggested, his voice even more hesitant than before.

Tarkin clasped his hand. He did remember that, of course. He remembered a Jedi general, young and brash and battle-scarred, and so eager to save everyone. That version of Vader had not been pristine, nor pure; he already believed so much of what Palpatine had told him. Before that, he must once have been a little slave boy dreaming of greatness; no doubt he had been other things. Maybe all those versions of Vader were real. Vader had denied, for so long, that his old self was alive; but maybe it wasn't a matter of selves being alive or dead at all. They were all the same strange, vulnerable man, in different circumstances, doing what he felt he needd to.

"Anakin," he repeated, running his thumb gently over the armorweave of the glove. "Is that what you want me to call you?"


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which parley happens in the bitchiest possible way, everybody makes the wrong assumption about Leia and Luke, Leia meets a ghost, all the Jedi get very mixed up about the things they're attached to, and Mon Mothma convinces the Rebellion not to fight what it hates, but to save what it loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This one took a while! (Life got very busy for me lately in some new and interesting ways.) Thanks for your patience; hopefully it'll be worth the wait.
> 
> You'll notice the chapter count has also gone down, for once in my life, instead of up. I thought about it a lot and I realized that chapter 17 is really the climax of this story; it ended up even more dramatic than what I planned in the outline (partly as a result of trying frantically to fix some of the outline's plot holes) and it would better serve the story if I moved to explore those events' immediate results and wrap things up instead of just keeping on adding more vaguely-related dramatic things. The other dramatic things aren't cancelled, but I'm moving them to a later instalment of the series.
> 
> Anyway, here's Leia and the Rebels, trying to figure out WTF is going on.

Things on Pantora had settled into an uneasy stalemate. Before, even at Yavin, the Rebels had always abandoned a base as soon as the Empire knew where it was. They weren't used to taking territory and holding it. The people of Pantora and Lothal were grateful, but there were many in the Rebel Alliance who still said it had been a bad idea - it made them vulnerable, and it wouldn't last long. Not once the Empire wrapped up its war of succession and was able to turn its resources to the Rebel problem fully. It would take a miracle for the Rebels to keep winning after that.

Leia knew, as she ran increasingly complicated obstacle courses with her breath puffing out into Orto Plutonia's snowy air, as she stood on her hands and tried to stack blocks of ice with her mind, as she practiced her lightsaber forms over and over, that she was training up to be that miracle.

She was good at this. It didn't surprise her; Leia was used to being good at things. But it was very gratifying, learning this new thing so quickly, feeling the steps come to her - when she focused - with such ease.

Except when she thought about Luke.

Every once in a while the image of him would come to her, trapped in some little room with a Vader who insisted they were family now, and she'd falter. She'd drop the ice blocks, or waver out of a proper stance with her lightsaber, and Ahsoka would sigh. "I know it's hard, but you're letting your attachments get in the way. You have to focus."

And Leia was _good_ at focusing. So she just took a few breaths, and tried harder, and it usually worked out.

It didn't surprise her when, just as she thought she was getting the hang of that standing-on-her-head-and-stacking-blocks thing, her communicator beeped with a message from Mon Mothma.

Leia flipped down out of her handstand and landed a little less gracefully than she meant to, rolling to a seat in the snow. The ice blocks that had been in the air, at her side, clattered to the ground. She tossed her head loftily like she'd meant to do that and opened the channel.

"Leia," said Mon Mothma, her tense shoulders and composed face appearing in the air. "I'm sorry to have to interrupt you so soon, but I think we might need you and Ahsoka back here. The _Executor_ just dropped out of hyperspace into a close orbit, asking to parley."

"Asking _what?_ " All the peace and composure Leia had been building, at her lessons, abruptly shattered. They'd known the Empire would turn larger resources on them soon enough, but - the _Executor? Here?_ "Vader doesn't parley. It's a trap."

"It may well be. But I don't think Emperor Vader is aboard that ship. The communication we received is from Grand Admiral Daala. She's offering to return two Rebel prisoners to us unharmed, as a show of good faith, if we'll hear her out. We haven't convinced her yet to tell us which ones."

Leia frowned, because that didn't make a lot of sense. Vader had always liked to command his ships himself, to be in on the action, and he'd said in his coronation speech that he wanted to keep doing that. But who knew what might have changed? With the sole exception of that encounter on Vrogas Vas, no one had seen Vader in battle since the coup. And the Empire almost never freed prisoners \- certainly not like this, merely as a show of their intentions. Not without demanding something even bigger in return.

Leia had been a prisoner so recently. She remembered what it was like.

"You want me to do the parley," said Leia. She was a trained diplomat, and now she also read minds. Mothma and a few others in the Rebellion had the former, but not the latter. If anyone could get to the bottom of what was going on here, it was her.

Mothma looked troubled. "I won't order you, Leia. You're no longer in the Rebellion's ordinary chain of command. I don't want to disrupt your training if this is a delicate time. But I think it would be helpful, yes."

Leia glanced at Ahsoka a few feet away, who looked at her calmly and nodded. It was already getting so easy to read the little nuances of Ahsoka's mind. She was teaching Leia what she knew, and that included moral and ethical knowledge, and those admonishments against losing focus. But she wasn't going to make Leia's choices for her. If Leia wanted to try a task like this now, she could do it.

Leia shut her eyes as a cold bit of snow blew past her face. She tried to clear her mind enough to feel the Force's whispers. But people didn't always have the luxury of being calm, not in a war. With the _Executor_ hovering somewhere invisibly overhead, focus eluded her.

"It's a trap," she said, opening her eyes. "But I'm going in anyway."

And she saw Ahsoka, across from her, suppress an affectionate grin.

*

She waited on the landing platform for Grand Admiral Daala's shuttle. They'd given the Empire the coordinates of a platform a few dozen miles away from the base, in the midst of Pantora's rolling, bluish fields and marshy valleys. A few aides and guards, as well as Mon Mothma, waited close by. The air was cool, but warmer than Orto Plutonia, at least, and Leia had been able to change into something properly diplomatic, a formal dress and a set of elaborate braids. She felt the wind from the shuttle's repulsor fields as it lowered itself towards her.

Leia had never met Grand Admiral Daala, but she'd heard the stories. She had a particular, irrational dislike for Daala's kind of evil. The Emperors wanted power, and they got it by killing and hurting people - that was disgusting, but there was logic to it. But wanting to _sleep_ with them - either of them - well, there wasn't any logic to that at all. It was just... gross.

The Imperial shuttle ponderously landed, and the loading ramp eased down. Daala walked down it, a tall woman in a pure white uniform and shiny boots, with red hair braided back behind her head, flanked by stormtrooper guards. She looked _angry-_

No, that wasn't quite right. Her face was stony and expressionless. She _felt_ angry. Angrier than she had a right to be, parleying with her enemies. If Leia focused, she didn't think Daala was even angry _at_ her enemies. Daala was here because something on her own side hadn't gone the way she wanted.

Leia frowned, intrigued.

"Princess Leia," said Daala. "I assumed, for a parley that could potentially save your Rebellion, I'd be speaking to someone more important."

"Grand Admiral Daala," Leia replied, in the mock-Core accent that she often assumed when she was dealing with Imperial brass - although Daala's voice was more Outer Rim than Core, actually. "I'm surprised the Emperors let you off your knees long enough to deliver their mail."

"And when it comes to defending a planet, I'm surprised the Rebels sent someone who's failed at that already."

Leia worked her jaw. They both could have gone back and forth like that a lot longer, but she needed to stay on task. "If all you can do is gloat over someone else's past victory, then you must not be expecting one of your own. Did you even bring anything to parley with?"

"I have something." Daala made a sharp gesture, and one of her guards stepped forward, handing her a thick data tape. "No doubt you remember the personal interest Emperor Vader takes in high-ranking Rebel prisoners. He was impressed by how quickly and easily you handed over Luke Skywalker. Out of gratitude for that gesture, he's ordered a truce. Effective immediately, the Imperial military will fully withdraw from the Lothal and Pantora systems. These two systems will become an autonomous sector, administrated by the Alliance to Restore the Republic. There will be no further attempt to destroy the Rebellion, provided that the Rebellion ceases military activity in the remainder of the galaxy and makes no attempt to annex further territory. The complete terms are on this data tape, including provisions for trade and transport between the Alliance Autonomous Sector and neighboring sectors of the Empire, and potential sanctions and remedies if the terms are not followed."

As Leia reeled, Daala tossed the data tape carelessly at her feet.

What in all of space did the Emperors think they were doing? Why would they offer this? This wasn't what Leia wanted at all - she wanted to fight the Empire and _win,_ the way they'd done at Yavin. But nobody in the Rebellion had been sure how they were going to do that. A truce was a concession beyond their wildest dreams. It was far beyond what Emperor Vader - if they were all sane, normal people in a sane, normal war - would have owed them in exchange for one prisoner.

Even if the prisoner was his son.

_You're far too trusting,_ said a faint, accented voice in Leia's memory.

The Empire had absolute power, and that meant they didn't have to follow rules or keep promises. All they had to do was make some flimsy justification for their actions, enough that their own side didn't actively rise up and kill them. Leia knew better than to trust any of the people behind this deal.

She raised her chin. "That's an unlikely story, even for you. What do you expect the Rebels will offer you in exchange for this so-called truce? How do you expect us to believe you're sincere? Do you think that the Rebel Alliance is even interested in-"

"This is not a negotiation," Daala interrupted, her voice cold. "The terms have been drawn up to Emperor Vader's specifications, and they are now Imperial law. You may read them at your leisure, and you may choose to abide by them or not. As a Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy, I can assure you that the Empire will be interested in your choice. As a person, I don't care."

There was a strange twist of emotion in Daala's mind at those last words. Daala wasn't lying about the terms, not exactly - but she was angry that she had to offer them.

She felt like the Emperors, by drawing up this deal, had betrayed _her._

What the kriff was going on inside the Empire? What was Vader doing? This made even less sense than before.

Leia set her jaw, trying to listen to the Force. Fear and anger and mistrust filled her; she had to push past them and quiet her mind. On Orto Plutonia that had seemed so easy. Up here on the landing platform, that kind of peace eluded her. It was so hard to focus on Daala's mind, or on any other cue besides the obvious, bizarre ones that had just been thrown down at her feet.

"What about the prisoners you offered to return?" she heard herself saying.

"I hoped you'd forget," said Daala, as expressionless as before. "Don't worry; they're here."

She gestured again, and two more stormtroopers marched down the ramp, dragging a pair of cuffed, bedraggled prisoners with them. The two of them stumbled down the rail's sharp incline, falling clumsily into a heap at Daala's feet.

Leia had never met these prisoners before, but she'd seen their personnel files. She recognized immediately that the two bruised faces staring up at her were Garoche and Rivoche Tarkin.

Garoche and Rivoche had joined the Alliance years ago as sleeper agents, doing small, deniable favors from their positions within the Empire, waiting for the day when their relation to the Outer Rim's Grand Moff would prove useful. When the two of them were summoned to the Imperial Palace, Mon Mothma had not taken long to work out what it meant. They'd been tasked with making contact with Luke, finding out his status, and retrieving him if they could. Last night, Rivoche had ordered their getaway driver away; but that only meant that they couldn't get Luke out of the palace that night. It didn't necessarily mean anything else had gone wrong. If they were _here,_ that meant that their cover was blown, and their mission had utterly failed.

_Luke._

For a minute Leia couldn't even concentrate on the parley or the truce.

She knew Daala was watching her closely. Daala wasn't Force-sensitive, but she could look at faces and draw inferences the way anyone could, and Leia hated that, knowing that sometimes there were weaknesses even she with all her training couldn't hide.

"As for Luke Skywalker," said Daala crisply, "rest assured, he will remain alive to enjoy Emperor Vader's hospitality for a _long_ time."

Leia shut her eyes tightly.

Daala didn't know that the Rebels knew Vader was Luke's father. She was bluffing. She wanted this to sound like a threat - she wanted Leia to remember her own time in captivity. Whatever was happening to Luke, Leia knew it wasn't like that.

But that didn't mean Luke was okay.

She tried wildly to get back some stability in the Force, to breathe more deeply, to ignore it. To focus on the kinds of information that could actually help her here - the stray thoughts and feelings in Daala's mind that might give away more about what was going on at the heart of the Empire. But all she could feel was her own fear and rage.

"Enjoy your peace while it lasts," said Daala. She turned on her heel, walked back into the shuttle, and flew away.

*

The Rebel guards hurried to Leia's side, one of them picking up the data tape before it could be damaged, two more quickly undoing Garoche and Rivoche's restraints. Mon Mothma followed after them at a more dignified pace, but Leia could feel the tension in her mind as well.

Garoche and Rivoche hurriedly stood, brushing themselves off. Mon Mothma bent down and picked up the data tape.

"Do you think it's real?" Mothma asked.

"I don't know," said Leia. She kept her eyes closed, forcing herself to focus. "Something strange is going on in the Empire. I couldn't feel the details - I just know this truce isn't something Daala wanted. The Emperors _made_ her come here and give it to us. I don't know if that makes it better or worse-"

"Pardon me," said a male voice, and Leia's eyes snapped open; it was Garoche Tarkin. He and his sister had approached her and Mothma, eager to be involved. "I recognize that our mission in many senses failed, but my sister and I _are_ spies. We witnessed some of what went into the making of this truce. Perhaps we could be of assistance."

Mothma looked up at both of them, slightly flustered. "Yes, of course. Leia, could you handle debriefing them? I really need to take this to my analysts and go over it in detail before I present it to the Council."

"Of course, Commander." Leia took a breath as Mothma walked off. Debriefing spies was something she had done before. She didn't want to do it, not with these two. She didn't like Garoche's accent; she didn't like his cheekbones. But that wasn't exactly _his_ fault.

"Actually," said Garoche more hesitantly, "before we debrief, do you have a comm console I could use? I rather urgently need to get a secure message to my wife. Rivoche witnessed everything I did."

Leia let out her breath. She remembered, from Garoche's record, that his wife sympathized with the Rebellion as he did; she'd been the one to convert him to the cause. He would need to ensure her safety quickly, before either of the Emperors thought of her.

"Yes, fine," she said; and if she felt any relief at getting rid of him, she didn't let it show. She pointed to two of the Rebel guards. "You and you. Escort him to the comms room. Keep him under supervision. Get General Draven to do the debrief, and we'll compare notes afterwards."

"Yes, Commander," said the guards, saluting.

Leia breathed deeply, trying and failing to center herself, as they led him away. It was just Rivoche, then, but Rivoche had the same stupid cheekbones and the same accent. There was no escaping this.

"Is Luke all right?" she asked.

"More or less, yes. I have some concerns, but he's not being treated poorly; he's been handling it quite well. But let's start from the beginning, shall we?" Rivoche leaned in, eager as any gossiping schoolgirl. She did have the same accent as the other Tarkins, but it almost didn't matter. "Let me tell you what I've learned about Darth Vader."

*

It was a long story, and once they got into a proper debriefing room, Leia found herself softening. The room was a simple one, white in the way that Mon Mothma preferred, with comfortable gray chairs and a simple desk. There were guards outside the room, and the desk had been set to record the whole conversation, so that it could be independently verified and cross-checked with Garoche's story. But Rivoche was a good storyteller, and once they were alone it felt all too natural for Leia to drop some of her princess's coldness and focus on the story. To clap her hand to her mouth in chagrin, or shake her head, or groan in exasperation. Like they were school friends sharing a juicy tale, and not a pair of actual, deadly-serious insurgent fighters who had never met before today.

Leia had imagined a lot of scenarios in her head - everything from Luke being horribly tortured and executed, to Luke somehow falling to the Dark Side himself. But the story Rivoche told was beyond anything she'd pictured. It was almost comedic, like the Organas' most awkward state dinners with people they didn't like.

"Wait," said Leia, for what felt like the twelfth time - there were so many details in this story that were hard to believe. "He said that the Rebels are _all_ his children?"

"That's what he said, yes." Rivoche broke into a not-terrible imitation of Vader's deep, ponderous voice. "'I am all the Sith; it seems that all the Rebels are my children.' Mind you, I don't know precisely what that was supposed to mean, and I don't know what 'all the Sith' means, either-"

"You're sure he meant _all_ the Rebels?" Leia pressed. She didn't know why this felt important. "Not just the three of you who were there with him?"

Rivoche made a frustrated gesture. "I'm not the one with a mental bond, Commander. I don't know what was going through his Dark Side-addled head. I only know those are the actual words he said."

Leia bit her lip so hard it hurt. "We're not," she said, more forcefully than she meant to. "We're not his children. He doesn't get to just come in and say that. After everything else he's done-"

She broke off. She was going to make herself cry if she kept on, and no matter how good Rivoche Tarkin might be with stories, Leia wasn't going to do that in front of her.

Rivoche pressed a knuckle lightly to her lips. "Commander, I can't claim to understand the depth of what you've been through. But when it comes to not wanting Emperor Vader as a father figure, believe me when I say that I _completely_ relate."

Leia snorted. She had to give her that one. "It sounds to me like, even if Vader has regrets, it's only because he found out there was a Rebel in his family. But that's not real regret. That's not good enough. Everything he did to-" She swallowed. "To the Rebels, before that. Before he knew. Those were all already people's children. He doesn't get to regret it just because it has something to do with him now."

"Well," Rivoche said casually, "if you don't like the truce, you can always break it."

Leia looked down, tensing her jaw.

It would be so tempting to do that, even if the rest of the Rebels didn't want to. It would only take one militant splinter group, like Rogue One's crew flying off to Scarif without permission, to blow the whole tentative peace apart. It would be so easy to justify: peace wasn't the Rebellion's aim. Overthrowing tyranny was the Rebellion's aim. Fighting the Empire was _right,_ and that was all that mattered.

It would feel right to her, even if it brought the full wrath of the Empire down on all of them, when abiding by the truce and making peace could have let them all survive long enough to build something good. Because Leia's own righteous vengeance, her sense of how _she_ had been harmed, mattered more than any of that.

That path, she knew, was the Dark Side.

"That kind of talk is premature," she said. "First Commander Mothma and her analysts will have to find out if it's even possible to abide by whatever the truce's terms are. Then the Council has to decide what to do. This has to be a decision that comes from all of us."

"That's fair." Rivoche gave Leia a careful look. "Luke sends his love, by the way."

Leia bit her lip, shutting her eyes again.

She didn't think what Luke had done was right. Not even if it had saved them all. It _wasn't_ right to capitulate to an enemy like Vader. Luke couldn't have known, when he decided to be Vader's son, that Vader would honor any of his promises at all. It was understandable in a sense - Luke was hopeful and vulnerable, he didn't have many good options where he was - but it was wrong.

Except that, wrong as it was, she still wanted to go to him. To wrap her arms around his stupid, naive shoulders. To hear him tell her it would be all right.

She could never say the word _brother_ to him. It would never be safe.

She could not say she loved him back, because no one but Ahsoka and Mon Mothma would ever understand what that meant. Even if she met Luke again someday, her the Rebel Princess and him the Imperial Prince, she couldn't tell him what he really was to her. He was one more scrap of family that Vader had taken from her, and her from him, and he'd never even know.

Rivoche let out a short, amused breath, watching her face. "Well, I told him I'd tell you and now I've told you, and we needn't speak about it again. Men are pesky, aren't they?"

Leia shook her head, standing. "I've got to go. You're free to return to your quarters; someone will come get you if we have any follow-up questions. And, Rivoche-"

She paused in the doorway, looking back at her. Cheekbones and stupid accent or not, this was a woman who'd risked everything for the Rebellion. She'd put her own life and her brother's life on the line, and she'd come very close to losing them. She'd lost her cushy job and her brief, impressive rank. She'd disowned, and been disowned by, a part of her family.

"Thank you for your service," said Leia.

*

She made her report to Mon Mothma and the analysts, who were not finished poring over the legal details of the truce. Garoche's debriefing, which would have to be cross-referenced with this one, wasn't finished either. Mon Mothma wouldn't be ready to speak to the Council about this for hours, and in the meantime the whole Rebellion was on tenterhooks, waiting to learn what new thing the Empire was doing.

Leia could feel that tension everywhere, and it gave her a headache. So she slipped a ways outside the base itself, to a little pavilion hidden in the marsh between a stand of willow trees, where her senses told her Ahsoka was waiting.

It was quiet out here, the hubbub of other minds fading into the distance, the sussurus of reeds and insects replacing the base's more civilized sounds. When Leia turned the corner, Ahsoka was standing, apparently alone, in that hooded cloak that made a double-pointed shape out of her head, with her back to her.

Leia didn't know what to say at first. Was she even allowed to tell Ahsoka what happened? Ahsoka had long ago stopped being a Fulcrum agent and started being her own thing, mystical and hidden, set apart from the rest of the war effort.

"I know what happened," said Ahsoka.

"How?" said Leia. She knew Ahsoka could read her thoughts, but - enough to know _all_ of what just happened? The parley and the debrief, in detail? From a distance? "You couldn't possibly-"

"I know," said Ahsoka. "Because _he_ told me."

Leia squinted in confusion, and then the air shimmered. A figure stepped into view - an old man in brown desert robes, transparent like a hologram, but he felt nothing like a hologram to her. He felt as real as a living man - but otherworldly in a way no living man could be. And she recognized his bearded face from the Death Star.

"Hello there," said the ghost.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi?" she exclaimed, rushing forwards to get a better look. "But you're dead."

She had grown up hearing stories of this man's heroism. When she lay in her cell on the Death Star, too tense and miserable to sleep, she had comforted herself by imagining that R2-D2 would find him and send him the plea for help she'd recorded. Even after Leia fell, Obi-Wan would find the plans she'd hidden in Artoo's memory and use them to set the galaxy to rights.

But he'd been the one to die first, as it happened, and she'd been the one to carry the plans to the Rebellion herself.

There was a kind twinkle in Obi-Wan's eye, but a very old sadness underneath. "I am, actually. But a great deal is possible with the Force. I've been keeping an eye on your brother. I can't intervene, but I can watch over him, to a degree."

"Is he all right?"

Obi-Wan sighed, crossing his arms. "In a manner of speaking. He has a hard road ahead, and it's not one I would have chosen. But what Rivoche Tarkin told you is true. I didn't think it was possible, but it does seem that Luke's gotten through to Vader somehow, at least in this small way. I'm not fully sure what that means for the future."

"Can't you see the future?" Leia demanded, but Obi-Wan gave her nothing in answer but a wry smile.

"You should talk to him," Ahsoka said to Obi-Wan, with a small grin, and Leia knew they were talking about Vader, not Luke.

"Nonsense. _You_ should talk to him."

Ahsoka made a derisive sound. "And let him know I'm alive? Even I know that's a bad plan."

"Well, then, likewise. I don't think learning ghosts are real would be good for him at the moment." Obi-Wan sighed. "I'll talk to him, probably. Eventually I'll have to."

Leia wanted to say that none of the three of them should give the tiniest shit what was _good_ for Darth Vader, but she stopped herself. She could sense more in this pair of powerful minds than she wanted to. Obi-Wan had been Anakin Skywalker's teacher once; Ahsoka had been his student. She'd told Leia how, for Jedi, those kinds of lineages were the next best thing to family. They remembered Vader from before he fell. It was... human for them to miss him. To want him back. Even if they both knew they couldn't count on ever getting that. Even if they knew they should think of the Rebellion first.

Looking at the two of them, Leia remembered Ahsoka's warnings about attachment. It wasn't that the Jedi couldn't feel. It was just that they know how easily feelings like this could get in the way. An hour or two ago, Leia had been so worried for Luke and angry at Daala that she'd missed things she ought to have been able to sense. Obi-Wan and Ahsoka both controlled the world around them with their minds, and right now neither of them trusted themselves to think straight or see clearly.

"You think he's turning back to the Light Side," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Is that even possible?"

"I don't know," said Obi-Wan, staring out through the willow's tangled branches into the blue-green of the marsh. "I thought it wasn't."

"Just the fact that he let Luke say all that to him," said Ahsoka, picking up the threads of the argument they'd been having before Leia walked in. "That he let him - call him that name. And stay with him. Just that by itself-" She took a heavy breath and abruptly looked away. "He's changing. Something's changing."

With a visible effort, Obi-Wan turned back to Leia, so that he could take the time to properly explain. "Something's changing, yes. More than you know. The Dark Side itself has been changing. Master Yoda senses it, but even he doesn't understand quite how or why. As near as we can tell, Darth Sidious somehow altered that part of the underlying fabric of the galaxy, and now that he's gone, some part of that is being undone. It's at least partly Anakin who undid it, but we don't know what that means. He could be turning back to the Light. He could simply be altering the darkness to better suit him. He still has people like Emperor Tarkin in his life, after all. I don't know that there are any guarantees."

Leia crossed her arms. "What if I still want to fight him? Whether he's changing or not. We're not talking about someone who had a bad few years and got into drugs or something. You know who we're talking about. He has to answer for his crimes."

Ahsoka didn't look at her, didn't move, but her voice was steady. "I told you that would be your choice to make. And it will be."

Obi-Wan gave them both a sad look, and Leia abruptly felt foolish. Obi-Wan had lived through the Jedi Purge, too. He'd been harmed the same way Leia and Ahsoka had - their whole culture, their whole family and what they thought was their future, wiped out in a day. When the time came for Leia to face Vader again, neither of them was going to second-guess her. She would choose what to do. The same way Ahsoka had chosen-

Leia frowned, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Where had _that_ thought come from?

"I was hoping I could train Luke to face him that way," Obi-Wan admitted, and another of those odd, fraught looks passed between him and Ahsoka.

Leia sighed and turned away. "I should go. There's a Council meeting where they'll need me." And she wouldn't get the clarity she needed by staying here.

*

The round conference room, patterned like a smaller version of Coruscant's now-empty Senate chamber, was packed to the brim. Rebels stood and clamored on every tier of its amphitheatre-like floor, while Mon Mothma stood in the center, illuminated in her usual white gown, calm and determined.

"-that we could never have imagined before Scarif and Yavin," she was saying as Leia squeezed herself into the crowd. The announcement had only just started; Leia hadn't missed much. "So many times I've been told that we won those battles because of a miracle. And I've never believed it. When we win it is because of the hard work, grit, and sacrifice of all of us working together. But deep down I know where that sentiment comes from. We are smaller than the Empire. The odds are always against us. We could easily have lost any of those fights. So I understand when people tell me it will take another miracle to let us keep this territory we've won for ourselves." She took a measured breath, letting those thoughts sink in. "Today, Luke Skywalker handed us that miracle. On his behalf, the Empire has offered us a truce."

The sound that came up from all sides of the room was exactly what Leia had expected. Derisive, disbelieving, confused: how could the Empire offer any such thing? And why would the Rebellion take it, if they did?

"My analysts have looked at the offer in detail. We can never be sure that the Empire will abide by its word, but the terms themselves are laid out clearly, and we have found no flaw nor any entrapment in them. In exchange for a mutual cease-fire, we will be allowed to govern the Lothal and Pantora systems ourselves, in perpetuity, and to engage in open trade and travel with the Empire as an autonomous sector."

This did not do much to quiet the room.

It was Senator Pamlo's voice that cut through the hubbub first, as she pushed close to the front of the crowd, her cowled face angry and afraid. "And why should we bother to do that? Won't they just swoop in and kill us as soon as we lay down our arms?"

"Our spies have been monitoring the Empire," said Mothma. "Partly for normal strategic reconnaissance; partly to see if Luke can be rescued." Luke was one of the Rebellion's greatest heroes, and everybody knew the story of how Vader had snatched him away. Everybody wanted him back here, and safe, and working for them. "There is much that I can't yet discuss, but it seems there are genuine changes occurring in the Empire's heart, partly effected by Luke himself. Whether they will last, and what the ultimate effect will be, I don't know. But it is our belief that this offer is sincere."

"That doesn't make any sense," Pamlo insisted. "Why would either of the Emperors even care what Luke thinks-"

"Because he's family," said Leia, effortlessly raising her voice above the hubbub.

She stepped forward. People recognized Leia; she was just as famous here as Luke, if not more.

Mothma had ordered her not to say this to anyone without authorization. But the situation had been a little different back then. The whole future of the Rebel Alliance rested on an offer that had been made, for Luke's sake, by his father. Whatever damage it did to Luke's reputation, the Rebels had to make this choice with their eyes open. They all deserved to know the truth.

"I was there when Emperor Vader captured Luke," said Leia. Everybody knew that already; reminding them of it lent weight to her words. "I know why Vader captured him. It wasn't because of the Death Star. Vader wanted Luke because Luke's father, Anakin Skywalker-" She paused and swallowed. "There have long been rumors about Emperor Vader's true identity, and who he was before the Empire. It's been said that he used to be a Jedi who was corrupted into serving the Empire, and now we know for sure. Vader is, or _was,_ Anakin Skywalker. And he came to Vrogas Vas to claim his son."

The room took in this news with a dead, disbelieving silence.

"Luke is no longer a Rebel," Leia said, struggling to keep her voice from shaking. "He would never betray us willingly, but it's not possible for him to be one of us anymore. He's under too much scrutiny from Vader to spy for us, and soon the Empire will announce him officially as an Imperial Prince. You can think of this truce as his parting gift. Our spies have confirmed it was Luke's idea. And, for reasons we can only guess at, the Emperors agreed to carry it out."

General Draven, arms crossed, tossed his head derisively. "You're telling us Emperor Vader feels sympathy for the Rebellion now?"

"I will not speculate as to Emperor Vader's feelings," Mon Mothma said firmly, retaking control. Leia stepped back and ceded the floor to her. "What we know is that we have been offered a truce on these terms. We all know that we can't trust the Empire. One way or another, I'm certain that this truce will one day be broken. But for Luke's sake, the Empire is likely to adhere to it for now. So here is what I propose."

They had managed to quiet down the crowd, at least. There were the sounds of people coughing, moving uneasily, muttering to each other, but as the room's central white lights continued to blaze down on Mothma, the Rebels let her speak.

"We call ourselves the Alliance to Restore the Republic," said Mothma, "and that remains our goal. The destruction of the Empire and the restoration of the whole galaxy to a democratic government. But we all know, deep down, that if we were simply to restore the Republic as it was, that would not be enough. The Republic was better than the Empire, but it contained the seeds of corruption that allowed the Empire to rise - with the full collusion and applause of the majority of the Galactic Senate. If we are to create a New Republic, we must not simply recreate what we once had; we must recreate it better, in a form more closely aligned with the ideals that it once served, with stronger safeguards against tyranny, with more genuine care for the rights and needs of its most vulnerable members. I have thought about this often, and I have despaired that we will ever have time to work out how to do it, when we are so constantly preoccupied with war.

"These democracies on Lothal and Pantora show promise, but it will take time for them to grow to their full potential. And the Emperors' truce - unwittingly, I think - has given us that time. We will not disarm ourselves. But we will use the time we have to make these two systems, through peaceful means, into systems where all sentient beings thrive. Let us learn to govern our autonomous sector as a safe place, a peaceful place, a place the rest of the Empire longs to escape to - and when the downtrodden try to escape to us, let us welcome them with open arms. The Empire thinks it will keep us contained, but under these terms of containment we can learn to shine in ways tyranny would never allow. We can expand, if the Force wills it, by the methods of peace.

"When it does come to war again - and I am sure it will - we will be that much stronger. With a whole population behind us. With an even larger groundswell of support throughout the galaxy, because we will have proven that there is something better to fight for." She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders; Mothma contained herself well, and the rest of the Rebellion would never know it, but a roil of doubt and conflict spun under the surface of her, almost as intense as Leia's. She'd made her choice, but only hindsight would tell if it had been the right one. "I propose to the Council that we accept this truce. Not as an end. But as a beginning."

More talk broke out everywhere, as Leia had known it would. She knew that this meeting would last hours. But she could feel that, when the dust settled, it was more likely to end on Mothma's side than not.

She didn't have it in her to listen to all the back-and-forth. She withdrew, instead, back to the edge of the room.

An arm clapped itself around her shoulders companionably, and she almost swatted it away before she realized it was Han. There was something refreshingly normal about seeing Han here. Since when had the sight of a scoundrel like him started to feel like relief? She shrugged him off, a little more gently than she'd meant to.

"Hey, Your Worship. I was starting to think you'd run off. People were saying you'd gone to train as a Jedi, but that's crazy talk."

"You'd be surprised," said Leia dryly. "But I've been busy."

It wasn't _exactly_ a secret, this Jedi thing. She'd tell him. When she was ready. She could tell him she was strong in the Force without having to tell him whose daughter she was. Back in the days of the Republic, people who were strong in the Force had popped up without any prior warning, in any family, all the time.

A small gaggle of their friends had gathered around Han - Chewie, and Wedge Antilles, and Amilyn Holdo, and those two droids from the Death Star. Han wrinkled his nose at her. "Luke's really Vader's kid? I don't see the resemblance."

"It's true," said Leia.

R2-D2 warbled something complicated and emotional. Leia spoke a lot of different languages, but she didn't speak binary. She had a feeling she should have a longer conversation with this droid at some point. But that required a translator, probably Threepio, and Leia didn't have any patience for Threepio most days.

"Boy," said Han, who didn't speak binary either. "Bet you regret being sweet on him now."

Leia bristled. It wasn't the first time Han had made a comment like that, jealously trying to prod her into admitting that she had a crush on Luke. She'd always known that it wasn't a crush, not exactly. But she wasn't ready to explain what that strange connection between them really was. And what made it any of Han's business, anyway? "I am not _sweet-_ "

Han grinned, self-satisfied, like a jerk. "You can say that again."

Leia shoved him away.

"You think they're really going to go through with it?" Wedge said, staring thoughtfully down at the center of the room where the Rebellion's bigwigs were debating. "Make peace? It's going to be a big change. I'd almost rather fight."

"I quite disagree," said Threepio. "I, for one, would like for this war to be over as soon as possible. Imagine actually relaxing!"

Chewbacca growled something, agreement or disagreement; Leia couldn't tell.

"I don't think it's going to be relaxing," she said, shaking her head.

It did relax her a little, though, just being around her friends. These, Leia thought, were the kind of attachments that would ground her. Instead of clouding her mind and filling her with fear, these ones reminded her what she was fighting for.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, for once, to lay down her arms and let them live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reeeeeally did not want there to be Jedi and Attachment Discourse in this chapter but I guess there was Jedi and Attachment Discourse, huh.
> 
> Sadly, "Ghost Obi-Wan appearing to Vader" - which I know I promised a few of you would happen - is one of the things that's being moved to a later instalment of the series. It WILL happen, just... not right now. So you get this little scene of Obi-Wan meeting Leia instead. Sorry. (We'll have a lot more notes about future plans for this series at the end of ch20.)
> 
> One more chapter to goooooo~


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anakin Skywalker contemplates the Light Side.

"Anakin," Tarkin said, sitting on the floor in the parlor at the heart of the palace. "Is that what you want me to call you?"

And Anakin hadn't quite known it was, hadn't been able to look that wish in the eye, until that moment. It was one thing to talk to Luke - who insisted very strongly, in the abstract, that Vader was Anakin, but who mostly called him "father" either way. It was another thing to be asked, straight out, by a man who was perfectly happy to love him as Vader, if he would take back the older name of his own free will.

It hadn't been his choice when he lost that name. Palpatine had simply announced to him that he was Darth Vader now. He'd gone along with it; he'd gone along with so many things he shouldn't have. He couldn't take any of that back.

But he was free, now that Palpatine was gone. Now that he was all the Sith. He could choose again.

"Yes," said Anakin, his gloved hand tightening around Tarkin's.

"Anakin," Tarkin repeated, meeting his gaze with a wry little smile. "Hello."

Anakin wanted it to be more dramatic than it was. He wanted the ominous bulk of his suit to catch fire and melt away. He wanted his eyes to blaze and sting as they turned all the way blue again. He wanted to feel the scars vanishing from his skin and the air painlessly, naturally filling his lungs. He wanted to die, maybe, and be replaced by something better. Something that should have been here in his place.

But none of that happened. He was just kneeling there on the floor, in his usual aching body, looking at Tarkin through his usual mask, while the breath hissed in and out of him mechanically. Nothing else had changed. It was just a word, even though it meant everything.

"Well," said Tarkin after a moment, looking back down. His hand gently slipped out of Anakin's. Anakin had rarely seen him like this, exhausted into something like softness, no longer trying to exert his will. "Where does that leave us?"

"Together," Anakin insisted. "Ruling the galaxy. That has not changed. We are Emperors. And we have a son."

"So-" Tarkin looked hesitant. "When you say _together-_ "

Anakin and Tarkin had known each other long before Anakin's fall. Long before the word _Vader_ had meant anything at all. But they hadn't been lovers then. That part of their relationship had only started a few years ago.

"I want to be with you," said Anakin. "There is no reason for that to change. I am still yours."

No reason, except it was increasingly clear that he didn't always stand for the things Tarkin stood for. Anakin didn't care very much about how the galaxy was run, but he didn't want to do things Palpatine's way anymore. And Tarkin still believed in Palpatine's way, even if that belief was becoming fractured. How could they still be lovers if they couldn't agree on what to do with the galaxy they ruled? Tarkin cared about those abstract things, about _rules,_ more than he let himself care about people.

But Anakin did not want it to change.

Anakin had gone through several sharp changes in his life. From a slave to a Jedi. From a Jedi to a Sith. From a Sith to whatever it was that he was becoming now. No one had ever stayed with him through one of his changes before. Not his teachers, not his mother, not his wife. Not unless they were the one who had caused the change to begin with. Was it too much to ask for his lover to stay with him through this one?

"Are you?" said Tarkin, shaking his head.

"I am yours," said Anakin, trying vainly to find better words for it. "But I am also my own."

Tarkin smiled slightly, then looked back up at him sidelong. "Were you serious when you said everyone in the Rebellion is your child? Or was that more for dramatic effect? I can't always tell with you."

"It is not... literally true. But..." Vader hesitated. He did not know how to explain this. He had felt, when he said it, that there was more meaning and more truth in it than he presently understood. But Vader felt things like that fairly often. Usually he never found out what they actually meant. He went for the safer explanation, instead. "All of our children are in the Rebellion. It is what they love and what they believe in. And to hurt the Rebellion is to hurt them."

Tarkin scrubbed his hands over his face. "You're going to be the death of me."

Underneath that pronouncement, there was something odd. Not a prophecy - Tarkin was not capable of those. But something that felt truer to Tarkin than he would admit. If they didn't fight the Rebellion in every possible way, Tarkin believed, they would die. If he didn't stand up to Anakin successfully, every single time they disagreed, he would die. It was that important to him deep down, on a level that surpassed logic. Even though he was beginning to understand that the people who taught him that way of thinking, long ago, were liars.

Tarkin looked at Anakin as though he was looking at his death. And, deep down, he still did not want to look away.

"I don't know what it says about me," he said. "Nothing good, I suppose. But I don't think you'd let me leave you now even if I wanted to. And the strange thing is - the more I think about it, the more I think I don't want to leave anyway."

There was something wrong with this. Tarkin had loved Vader even at his darkest. But it felt like this thing between them was a miniature version of the Empire itself. Jagged and cruel and built on a foundation of lies, which were slowly beginning to crumble. There might be something left, a new and different shape, when the dust settled. They might withstand the light together as they'd withstood the dark. Or there might be nothing but devastation.

He should let it go for now. He should give Tarkin space to sort things out, to come back to him when he had calmed down enough not to fear for his life. Let it all crumble and settle on its own. Instead of careening around, as he always did, chasing the kind of attachments that would only cause everyone pain.

But Anakin had never been very good at _should_ s.

"I would let you go," he said, grabbing Tarkin's hand back possessively. Ignoring the guilty twinge deep down as he wondered if that was true. "But I do not want you to."

"Good," said Tarkin, with only the faintest hint of irony.

Anakin let him bring his gloved hand to his lips again, wishing he could pull the glove away. Wishing there would be skin underneath when he did. He did not know how much longer this could last. But they had it, for now, and that had to be enough.

*

Later, when he had a moment, Anakin went back to his guest room and keyed his own fortress's address into the comms panel. The ship with Garoche and Rivoche and the truce had already flown off on its strange mission, and Luke was busy in his meeting with Architect Leffe. Anakin would see Luke again soon. But there was something he wanted to do first.

M4's robot visage flickered into place in front of him soon enough. Her voice was as chipper as ever. "Hey, Lord Vader. What's up?"

He did not correct her about his name. That was a talk they should have in person. Anakin wasn't sure he wanted everyone to call him Anakin yet. Not the whole Empire - the phrase _Emperor Anakin_ sounded wrong in his head. Just a few people, just the ones who knew him well enough to understand what it meant to him. That would be enough for now.

"I have been thinking," he said. "And I wanted to apologize. For choking you. I was distressed, but that is... not an excuse."

M4 stared at him for several silent seconds, long enough that he started to wonder if she hadn't heard. Or if her processors had broken down somehow.

"Huh," she said at last.

Anakin felt annoyed. She didn't have to accept his apology - he dimly remembered that from his Jedi days. Even back then, when the worst he'd ever done was be impulsive and fuck up his lessons, he'd already known that no apology would ever be enough. Jedi didn't want to waste time with remorse or with self-flagellation, they just wanted you to do better, and Anakin had never in his life been able to do better.

But that wasn't quite true, was it? There had always been something wrong with him, but he hadn't always been Vader. He'd done better than _that,_ once.

"Is there something wrong?" he demanded.

"No! Just surprised. Apology accepted, don't worry about it, I'm a droid. Et cetera." M4 tilted her head, and Anakin was pretty sure she was lying, but he didn't feel like calling her on it. "How are things going over there?"

"Do you remember," said Vader, "in our therapy session, you said that I should... confess my sins. Explain why I felt like a monster. To someone who shared my values."

M4 sounded extremely pained. "Yeah, I told you that's an eventual goal that we're working towards, like a while from now when you've got some other building blocks in place. It's okay, Lord Vader. It's way in the future. You don't have to think about it too much yet."

"I think," said Vader, "that I did that. Or something like it. Partially."

There was a blank, skeptical pause.

"Did you?" M4 said at last. "How did that go?"

Anakin thought guiltily of Tarkin, who had still been curled up forlornly in the Imperial Suite's parlor when Anakin left him. He'd been able to maneuver him into one of the chairs, at least, instead of the floor. But Tarkin was going to keep hurting about this for a while.

He thought of Luke, who had asked so little of him, and who had been prepared to give everything in exchange.

"I believe," Anakin said, "that it caused as many problems as it solved. But I do not regret it."

M4 made a small, amused noise. "Yeah, that's about what I figured. Sounds like we'll have a lot to talk about at your next appointment, Lord Vader. When are you coming back?"

"I do not know. Soon, I think." He hesitated. "You asked if there were emotions I did not let myself feel. Wanting to do better. That was one you mentioned."

"Yeah?"

"I think you were right," said Anakin. Incredulous as M4 was, she was still the only person he wanted to say this to. Tarkin was not ready to hear it. Luke was _too_ ready - he would push Anakin to act on it right away. M4 would only listen. "I think I do."

*

Luke had gone to a confusing meeting with Architect Leffe. She had listened just a little bit too enthusiastically to his half-formed ideas about a memorial for the Jedi. She'd ended up recommending that they bring an actual historian on board; Vader had assigned Leffe to this work, but she was really only a specialist in how buildings were constructed, not in how to present the actual information inside him. So Luke had nodded and told her to do that, reeling inside at how easy it was to give orders now. He still wasn't sure exactly how far his authority went. He wasn't allowed to dismiss his own guards, and he was pretty sure he couldn't set policy, not without another big fight like the one they'd just had, but when it came to things like this, people like Leffe obeyed him without question. This was going to take some getting used to.

Now he was back in his guest room, flopped over on the luxurious blue-green-black bed, decompressing.

He had woken up today with a desperate, last-ditch plan. He still couldn't quite believe it had _worked._

All he had really hoped for was mercy for his friends. He'd hoped that if he bargained exactly right, Vader would wave one of his black-gloved hands and say, _yes, what you ask is fair_. Luke had never expected the _rest_ of it - the way Vader had suddenly been flooded with regret. The way he'd then gone to Tarkin and _demanded_ the truce, and seen it through.

Luke didn't think he understood all the things that had just happened here. He did know that he had given his father something that they both badly needed,. And for now, at least, he had saved the Rebellion.

But last time Luke saved everybody, there had been a dramatic explosion in the sky. A crowd of his friends hugging and cheering for him as he climbed out of the X-Wing. Medals. Han and Leia smiling at him, beaming with pride.

He didn't have any of that now. He was a prince, and he was alone.

It still didn't quite feel real.

What was going to happen now? _It seems that all the Rebels are my children,_ Vader had said. But what did that mean? Did he want to make peace with them? Did he want to invite them all in and make them pretend they liked him, the way Tarkin had done with his own children? Did he want to let them take over the galaxy, the way Tarkin had feared? Did he want to actually make amends, to pay for his crimes formally, the way Rivoche had wanted? Luke didn't even know what that would look like. He loved his father, as weird as that was to admit to himself. He wanted to stay at Vader's side. But something told him the rest of the Rebels weren't ever going to want that. Luke felt how deeply Vader regretted what he'd done. He could come back from the Dark Side. But planets didn't get un-blown up. People didn't get un-tortured.

Mainly, it had just been a really long day. Luke was tired.

He'd asked the guards for a datapad and a stylus,. He'd thought that writing out his thoughts would help him make sense of them. Ben would approve of that, he thought. But now that he had the datapad and the stylus in his hand, words weren't coming. Instead he opened a drawing program and doodled a picture of a spaceship.

Luke missed the model spaceships he'd used to play with, back on his aunt and uncle's farm. The farm that was burned and dead now, because of the Empire. Which Luke had now joined. If he asked the guards for a bunch of model spaceships like that, Luke suspected the guards would go and get them. But it still felt funny, being able to ask for luxuries like that, just because of who his father was.

Everything in his head was all muddled up.

He found himself taking deep breaths as he drew. Instinctively at first, and then when he realized he was doing it, he paid more attention. He did it deliberately, a rhythm, like Ben had taught him. Eventually, he ran out of useful things to add to the drawing, and he put it down and closed his eyes and just breathed more, clearing his mind. He didn't make himself think about any of it; he was done with thinking today. He just let it all be.

After a while, the door opened, and Vader walked in.

Luke sat up straighter, instinctively reaching for his father's mind. Vader felt tired and a little uncertain, but not as anguished as he'd been when Luke saw him last. He and Tarkin must have worked things out.

"Father," he said.

"Son," said Vader.

He leaned on the couch slightly, testing its strength, and then he carefully sat down. The couch creaked.

"Thank you," Luke said softly.

He felt something in Vader's mind that he couldn't have explained. Something vulnerable. He felt like he'd pushed his father so hard that he broke him, but he felt like the break had been a good thing. He couldn't have justified that feeling if someone had asked about it. There was a lot that Luke didn't know how to say in words.

Vader didn't seem to know what to say either, so Luke let him sit quietly for a while, and then he cleared his throat and changed the subject. "I talked to Architect Leffe. About the memorial. We might have to delay our new quarters until they've surveyed the unfinished levels and figured out some stuff, because we don't want them to get built in a place where the memorial should have gone, but that's okay, right?"

Vader waved an indifferent hand. "Acceptable."

"Also-" He hesitated. "She's going to bring a historian on board, but she said nobody really remembers a whole lot of Jedi stuff. There are the archives, but they're incomplete. And for a lot of stuff, just the daily details of what it was like in the Order, what most historians would really want to do is talk to someone who lived that way who's still alive. Would that be, um- I mean, with Ben gone, I don't even know who else would-"

Vader looked down dourly. "I should not be the one to speak for the Jedi."

"But what if you were the only one who could? Or maybe- maybe it'd be even better if you weren't, maybe they'll find someone else who survived now that it's not against the law to be a Jedi anymore, and then you could both talk and they'd fill in the details between you. I don't know exactly how it works, but-"

Vader gave him a skeptical look.

For a minute Luke imagined getting Ben to do it. Would Leffe accept that? The testimony of a ghost, dictated to a prince who was too young to remember any of it. It made him want to laugh, but something told him it was not the time to mention Ben to Vader.

"I get why you wouldn't want to talk about it," he added, more hesitantly. "But also- one of the things she said it would make sense to do, for the memorial, is to list the names of the Jedi who died. In the Purge. I don't know if there's a central record of that, or, um..."

"I remember those names," Vader said softly.

There was something in Vader's mind, something tender and delicate, that Luke thought he was almost ready to put a name to. He wasn't sure if he should say it. It felt like a little animal nosing its way in between the moisture vaporators, something that Luke didn't want to make any sudden moves around, lest he scare it away.

But he wanted to know.

"Father..." he said, and he swallowed hard. "Do you miss being on the Light Side?"

Vader hesitated.

"There is much that I miss," he said. "There is much that I do not. I do not think the Light Side would suit me anymore." He looked back up at Luke. The strange tender feeling had not gone away. "You were meditating when I came in. That is a Light Side technique, though a beginner's version. Obi-Wan must have taught you."

"Kind of," Luke said, hedging. He _really_ didn't want to talk about Ben. "He didn't have a lot of time."

"Try it again," said Vader.

Luke obediently shut his eyes. He listened to Vader's breathing. He didn't think he could stop paying attention to that sound, so instead he used it to set his own rhythm, trying to breathe at the same rate Vader did. It was a manageable pace, very even, but not too slow.

He could feel Vader's attention on him. Luke wasn't sure if it was possible to meditate with someone looking at his mind so closely, but he could give it a try.

He cleared his mind, trying to think about nothing. Trying to let there be nothing in the room, or inside his head, but that steady, audible rhythm.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

*

Here is what Anakin Skywalker knew about himself:

He had not died, no matter how hard he tried to tell himself that had. He had been just one person all along.

He had a lover.

He had a son.

He did not especially want to be an Emperor, but he was one, and he would need to work out what to do about that. He was the last of the Jedi and the last of the Sith. He was the father of three brave Rebels, though only one of them actually wanted him around, and he would need to work out how to keep them all safe.

He was tired of hurting people.

He did not want to go back to the Light Side, not the way the Jedi had done it. He would undo the Jedi's deaths if he could, but he did not want to live like them again, with their families and feelings so strictly controlled. Anakin was free now. Whatever he did, it should be on his own terms.

But there was something in his son's mind that called to him, as he watched the uncertain, simple way that Luke reached for the light. Something that Vader wasn't sure he trusted. Something, despite this, that felt like home.

Anakin did not deserve Luke. But even after he'd set Luke free, Luke had stayed here, breathing with him like this.

He was alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW!
> 
> I am so delighted with how this fic has taken off. Thank you all for reading along.
> 
> Clearly, this isn't the end of Luke and Anakin's story - there is much more to explore in this AU. Normally at the end of a longfic I'm like "teehee, might write another one, might not, who knows, we'll see" but I'm actually going to be less coy this time. I'm _almost_ positive I'm going to write more. It's just that there are _so_ many plot and character threads to follow from here, I almost don't know where to begin. Lots of little ideas and pieces of implication to follow up on, but no real idea yet where any of them end or how they all fit together. For instance:
> 
>   * What does Luke do next? How does he adjust to being an Imperial Prince? Can he train himself to use the Force? How does that go?
>   * How on EARTH does Vader and Tarkin's relationship progress from here. I mean, really. I was expecting their relationship to break down completely in this fic and then it didn't quite and I'm delighted but I'm also like "???" 
>   * Where does this very odd situation go politically? How do the Rebels' adventures in governance turn out? What does Tarkin think about them? What does the Vader-Tarkin administration start to look like as Vader gets a better handle on how his ideals might differ from Tarkin's, and as Tarkin starts to gradually unravel all of the ways in which the things Palpatine and Grand-Uncle Jova taught him were not necessarily the best ideas? What happens when it does, inevitably, come back down to war again - or does it? 
>   * Daala's flying off to start the First Order; we'll see how that works out for her! 
>   * Leia's Force training! HOW the heck, exactly, does Leia fit in with everyone else' redemption arcs? Does she get the dramatic father-daughter lightsaber fight that she so desperately craves? What happens when her true identity is suddenly-but-inevitably revealed to Vader? 
>   * Obi-Wan and Ahsoka angstily meeting Vader again. (And Yoda? KronosSion keeps asking for Yoda, but I honestly have no idea what to do with him in this AU)
>   * Those of you who read "Strike Me Down; I Am Unarmed" will also know that there's still a High Priestess of the Sith Eternal sitting in a cell on the _Executor_ because everybody forgot about her...
> 

> 
> So there's all of those, plus (I'm sure) more things people want to see which may show up in the comment section. I may end up breaking this into a bunch of little stories focusing on different subsets of characters before trying to put it all together again, but I'm not sure yet.
> 
> Anyway, the surest way to find out when I do post more is to series subscribe (if you have an AO3 account you can do this on the [series page](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845532)) or author subscribe (which you can do on my [profile page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulshrapnel)) - the only difference between the two is whether you also want my random writings that aren't this series.
> 
> (I know I've picked up a few readers who are minors, because of the T rating - I am fine with that and glad you liked it but, uhh, before you author subscribe, be aware that some of my fics are very NSFW, please don't click the "I'm 18+" button unless you actually are.)
> 
> **Bonus Material**
> 
> If you like this fic, you might like my ["In The Faces Of Our Children" playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/22Zh4z1RpXEGy0N8PmpT3D). This is softer than my previous fic playlists and has _way_ less metal. Just a lot of moody little songs about difficult relationships, mental health, and redemption. I'm fond of it and have been playing it to myself a lot.
> 
> I am a [blanket permissions author](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulshrapnel/profile), so if you want to write out your own ideas for what happens in this AU, or draw art or make podfic or whatever, please go right ahead and do it, I'd be thrilled.
> 
> And, finally, I'm [madeofsplinters on Tumblr](https://madeofsplinters.tumblr.com/) \- feel free to give me a follow there if you want to yell and throw villain gifs back and forth through the void.


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